


A Stout Heart

by PudentillaMcMoany



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5688316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PudentillaMcMoany/pseuds/PudentillaMcMoany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of stones that may be key to deciphering the King's Letters and comparative linguistics, of Russian scholars and English radicals; of printing presses and scullery maids.<br/>Also: Mr Segundus is in love. Mr Childermass is recalcitrant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfiction in this fandom and my first new work in almost five years. I am very nervous! I am very rusty! But I love these dudes and I'm having a lot of fun with them.

At first he missed their conversations.  
Alone in his London lodgings, after a week spent between Starecross hall and York with John Segundus, John Childermass would find himself remembering their discussions on Vinculus the book and on magic, and on the new England that they would build with it. He would recall them at the most inconvenient of moments; at night, while he sat in front of a fire, the book he was reading abandoned on his lap, or during supper, tea growing cold in front of him, stew long since forgotten.

Every time he remembered, their conversations would change, refined and polished by Childermass into a form he liked better. Here he would make himself less brusque, there Mr Segundus more pliable. He would give their conversations a facility they didn’t have, their gestures a levity neither of the two men possessed. He wished them to be at ease, companionable and frank, and he suffered all the more for not knowing how to make it so.

 

It once happened that, on his way back from York, Childermass was surprized by a snow storm. He found himself in need to ask Mr Segundus for shelter, to which the gentleman promptly obliged.  
At Starecross, in that cold night of Winter, Childermass felt for the first time the familiarity that he longed, and he talked honest and long to Mr Segundus, who in turn didn’t fret so much as usual, and even agreed with him from time to time. They spent the evening as men who are equal and of the same mind do, drinking and jesting and becoming incensed over politics. Their conversation extended so much beyond what was customary that when Childermass retired it was well into the morning; even so, he regretted that they had to part. Upon returning to their respective apartments, Segundus, not desiring to wake the servants, had gone himself to fetch a thick blanket, for he was afraid that Childermass would be cold and would not hear a word about it. When he pressed the quilt into his hands, their fingers brushed for the briefest spot of time.

In the next weeks Childermass found himself missing that touch too, and the way Segundus’s gaze had widened, and the soft curve of his mouth.

 

With the return of magic to England, many young men and women had decided to embark in the profession of magician, and whenever they heard that Childermass was in London they would go to see him in flocks. Not all of them sought apprenticeship, as many perceived it disreputable to put themselves in the hands of a former servant, but every one asked him for advice; they knew that Childermass, gentleman or not, was one of the best magicians of the age, and had advised Mr Norrell wisely until he had been turned away. Some days the aspiring magicians were so many that their magic - acerbic, London-foggy and volatile - would leave Childermass faint. How he would miss Segundus’s magic then, buzzing pleasantly in his ears like a warm summer day, comfortingly fragrant of lavender and rosemary (down-to-earth, _sensible_ smells, Childermass would consider, feeling his esteem for Mr Segundus tingling in his chest).

 

In the following months it took Childermass’s fancy to take over a printing press, as he was persuaded that it should be a responsibility of the country’s magicians to see that rigorous books about magic were published. Thus he had busied himself with finding the suitable equipment and the workers, and then there was the question of financing. Accepting commissions, signing contracts, dining at the house of this or that would-be shareholder kept him busy for the whole spring. He didn’t visit Starecross but once, and even that, for velocity’s sake, by using the fastest, more dangerous means of the King’s roads so that he could be back in London that very same day. He had intended to borrow some volumes from Segundus’ encyclopedia, and to dine with him, and had looked forward to one of their conversations. But Segundus had been away to visit the Honeyfoots, and so Childermass had had to content himself with borrowing the books and writing a note before leaving for London.  
After his unsuccessful visit to Starecross, Childermass started to miss Segundus in an entirely different way. He would begin, as had become customary for him, by missing his laugh, or the peculiar not-blue-nor-green of his eyes, or his comments at a spell gone wrong (insightful, well-read; _why don’t we try Belasis_ , he would say, _we_ , as if they had been always working together, even when, by all rights, it was Childermass’s fault alone that the spell had not worked). He would then start missing Segundus's long-fingered hands, the peculiar way he moved them, the way, sweetly childlike, in which he clenched his fists when nervous. Thence his imagination would take a turn of its own; before long he would find himself missing a Segundus that he had never known, one that kissed and caressed and pleaded with him in a soft voice _would he not stop, please_.

This fantasies would occur to him more often that he would admit, and more often than not Childermass found himself unwilling to stop them, however much he tried. Sweet as they were, they always left him troubled afterwards, his mouth dry with lust and a sense of unease coiling deep in his guts.

He had loved but once, and when his master had been stolen away he had decided that that was it, and he would never love again, thank you very much. Now the depth of his feelings for John Segundus scared him. This wasn’t because he was afraid of being hurt, for Childermass was not a coward. The pain of love he knew well enough, and the loneliness of never being able to confess it; as much he could bear. What he couldn’t be at peace with was that his feelings for Segundus reeked of betrayal. John Childermass had never been anything but faithful to his masters, few that he might have had, and he couldn’t grasp how he could be so flimsy that the simple promise of having his- not that it was love, but his _feelings_ reciprocated (provided that he hadn’t misunderstood Segundus completely, _but he hadn’t_ ) would make him forget so easily about his previous engagement. For it had been an engagement, and a long one, even if one-sided. And wasn’t that one-sidedness the very proof of his constancy? More than anything, what was nagging at him was that Segundus made him doubt of his very own nature, and he didn’t like to doubt of himself.

Thus Childermass pondered, and every time he resolved never to think of his fellow magician again. Yet, almost unthinkingly, he would find himself writing to him. His affections grew stronger with every day they spent apart and every marmalade-stained reply he received, and he felt weaker and weaker against them. He was grateful that his business in London kept him from visiting Starecross, for even if he missed Segundus something fierce, he feared what could happen would he visit him.

 

As for Segundus, he had liked Childermass since he had aided him- although after a fashion- in the affair with Lady Pole, and in the year that it had taken for their acquaintanceship to become a steady friendship, he had found himself, much to his dismay, more and more besotten with the man. Childermass was, of course, still immensely proud and unbearably scathing and unkempt of appearance. In spite of his shortcomings and underneath his gruff manners, however, he was also unexpectedly kind, and untiringly patient, and perplexingly handsome.  
On the day when, come home from the Honeyfoots’ house, poor Mr Segundus had found that Childermass had visited Starecross and yet not waited for him, his displeasure had been so keenly felt that he had had to conclude that he was, most inconveniently, very much in love with the man.

Childermass had not come to see him once since the long night they had spent in the library at Starecross, and he found this infuriating! All the more so because Mr Honeyfoot was a lousy reviewer, always ready to praise his articles and not too keen on critiques, and Segundus missed the way Childermass would point at the odd orthography mishap, with an ill-concealed smile and the pride of knowing that he, with his low birth and patchy instruction, should be a better writer than Segundus. Segundus, for his part, was so in love that he didn’t really mind these occasions; on the contrary, he too was in awe of Childermass’ wit and his easy prose, but mostly of his rare smiles.

Even if he had not visited in months, Childermass wrote to him often. This, Segundus found endearing. He especially loved how the letters demonstrated a keen participation with the life of Starecross and its inhabitants, enquiring once on the state of the students and the next time on the joints of Mr Honeyfoot, suggesting a spell for increasing the productivity of the hens or a hex to get rid of burglars. When he had time, Segundus would stare at the letters for a long time, trying to guess at what Childermass was doing when writing them, interrogating the slanted cursive and the occasional smudge of ink. In fact, although the letters were full of long and oftimes complicated details about the workings of print presses and the dubious joys of typesetting, they scarcely disclosed anything about the private life of their sender or of his well-being in London. Segundus found this unnerving, even more so because Childermass seemed never to shew any interest in his well-being apart from the customary, polite enquiries. And so, one day in July, he decided to set the situation to right.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Segundus goes to London to solve the Business with Childermass (though he does not know clearly what sort of business it is and how to solve it), learns of the workings of steam presses, and ends up having his head knocked against a wall.

The room was heavy with speckles of burning coal, enveloped in a humid cloud of steam that made it hard to breathe and stuck the hair on the nape of his neck. The press machine whizzed and whirred, spitting out a large sheet of paper that two girls cut in smaller rectangular shapes. Ink was everywhere; in the tanks propped on the wall, under the fingernails of the workers, in the tangy smell that prickled the back of his throat. Had John Segundus been in the mood for similes, he would have certainly argued that the printery resembled Childermass very much, in that it was a queer mixture of the dangerous and the comforting: what with the steaming press, which could mangle hands and burn off clothes if left unguarded, what with the familiar, yet enticing smell of paper warmed from the machinery.

Segundus could feel all these things; however, as he was not in the mood for similes, or indeed rhetoric figures of any kind, he couldn’t quite formulate them; they settled at the bottom of his stomach, unnamed, making him even more tense. The tiredness of a long, uncomfortable journey had tied knots in his back, and he hadn’t slept at all the night before, thinking and rethinking about his forthcoming meeting with Childermass. No matter how many strong teas he had drunk in the morning, he couldn’t help but feel shattered, exhausted and frantic at the same time.

James Browne, a man of forty years, red of hair despite his name, didn’t seem to notice Mr Segundus’ poor conditions at all. He walked leisurely on the slightly sticky floor, pointing at the machines (admittedly still very few) and explaining their plans for the future (admittedly still very modest). Segundus, on his part, had a burning desire to just go to Childermass and get the whole situation done with (though the specifics of _how_ exactly he wanted to set the affair were blurry at best). Mr Browne, however, had been so kind as to offer him a tour through the machinery, and how could Segundus decline? He nodded politely, while discreetly bringing a pocket handkerchief to his burning neck.

“’S mainly pamphlets now, advertising, that sort of thing.”

“I understand Mr Childermass wants to try his hand, see how it goes?”

“There’s that and there’s the matter of money. Papers are an expensive thing, what with the blasted taxes and all, forgive me language, sir, but that’s the truth.”

Segundus assented, and carefully treaded through the piles of paper, not really knowing what to respond. Any other day he would have participated more energetically in the conversation; out of politeness, of course, but also because, under normal circumstances, he would have quite liked the honest gruffness of Mr Browne. As it was, he found that he could not concentrate very easily, not with Childermass on the upper floor, whose presence he could almost sense, like a tingle of magic deep in his bones.

“So you are a friend of Mr Childermass then?”

Segundus nodded, slowly. “I’m a colleague of his, yes.” And then he added quickly, as an afterthought: “I came here for professional enquiries.”

At which Mr Browne looked at him with slanted eyes, as if not altogether convinced that this answered his question. Segundus blushed under his scrutiny, and dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief. When he noticed that Mr Browne was still studying him he mumbled, “It is very hot in here.”

“It’s the machines! But we don’t mind it anymore, in fact there’s someone even sleeps in here, right, Turner?” Mr Browne winked at one of his younger co-workers, who waved her hand in return. Then he gestured for Segundus to follow him up a flight of stairs. “But enough of this; I bet you are impatient to talk with the Great Man himself,” he smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling pleasantly with irony and affection. James Browne was one of those men who are gifted with a good nature and an infectious smile, such that they always manage to convey kind feelings even if they say a great many things should sound rude, or indeed, even if they bellow in front of a closed door behind which is their superior, “Mr Childermass, your _colleague_ is here!”

Segundus's stomach lurched. For the first time he was glad of having had the sense of skipping his breakfast, or he was sure that he should be sick. From inside the room came a rustle of papers shuffling.

“My colleague _who_?” Asked Childermass, who sounded every bit as if he thought colleagues were an entirely preposterous concept; at that, James Browne, who was a straightforward man, opened the door.

“That would be me,” Segundus said, catching himself just short of raising his hand; instead he brought his knuckles to his lips, self consciously. Clutching his hat against his chest, dizzy with anxiety, he lingered on the threshold. In the mirror in front of him he could see that his hair was damp and mussed, his eyes grotesquely red-rimmed. How ashamed of himself he was, how ill at ease! He became even more so when he glanced at the desk right under the mirror. There sat a nonplussed Childermass, who was as unkempt, unshaven and unapproachable as ever. Irritatingly, _his_ figure seemed to benefit of the general untidiness about him; in his in shirtsleeves, waistcoat discarded, ink-stained cufflinks open on his fine wrists, he looked the very picture of a romantic hero- albeit maybe the kind of romantic hero who wrote scholarly articles and managed a printery, that is, a comparatively peaceful one.

“You never told me you were to come here, Mr Segundus,” said Childermass, slowly getting up, his gaze fixed upon him.

“...If you’ll excuse me,” interjected John Browne, who had clearly sensed the general uneasiness in the air; before Childermass could indeed excuse him he was already out of the room, door shut behind him.

“Good day to you too, Mr Childermass,” replied Segundus, pointedly, upon entering the room. Then he added (quickly, as an afterthought): “I had urgent business.”

“Urgent business of which nature?” Asked Childermass, wary. If Segundus were fair, Childermass looked wary most of the time, so this shouldn’t disquiet him; but this was a different sort of wariness. There was about him an air of nervousness, if Segundus wasn’t wrong, an urgency which broke the surface of his usual carefulness and made his voice falter, just a little. Another person maybe would have missed it, but not Segundus, who spent a great deal of time thinking of Childermass’ voice faltering, albeit in slightly different situations. He hesitated. When Childermass gestured to the chair in front of the desk, he agreed to perch himself uncomfortably only on the edge of the seat, dutiful but uneasy, hat on his knees as if ready to flee. His neck was stiff, the room too warm, and he felt curiously like he was under an interrogation. Childermass was leaning on the desk next to him, unnervingly tall, so close that Segundus could feel his magic. It radiated from him, the colour of heather, the only pleasant feeling in the midst of great discomfort.

“I needed my encyclopedia. For-for enquiries of a scholarly nature.”

“Had you just asked me, I would have had it sent to you.”

“Yes, but I also had other business in London.”

“Indeed.”

“I wanted to see about one of those supplements.”

“It’s not as if you have the money.”

“That is true, in fact I have decided that it can wait.”

“And was it really necessary to come to London?”

“Say what you want about the south, but they do have the best booksellers.”

“You look very pale, Mr Segundus.”

“Likewise, Mr Childermass. Don’t you ever go outside?”

Childermass snorted, crossing his arms. He did look pale, and tired. His desk was a chaos of odd volumes and sheets of paper; among them Segundus could spot bills and tarot cards,[1] correspondence with someone of appalling handwriting and some sketches. He reached for one of them.

The drawing, clearly in Childermass’s hand, pictured the arm of Vinculus, King’s letters painstakingly reproduced. The edges were filled with notes in a neat, tiny, unmistakably feminine handwriting. “Have you made any progress with the Raven King’s book?” Enquired Segundus, hoping to sound casual while his voice struggled to rise above a whisper.

Childermass shrugged, making a big show of looking away, “I sent some passages to a Russian fellow, see what she can do.”

“You shall work with her, then.”

“I shall work with anyone can help me.”

Couldn’t he help him anymore, then? How long had Childermass worked on the Raven King’s book with another person, omitting even to mention it in his letters? Segundus felt that he didn’t have any right to be so sad; yet he felt it, the sting of jealousy, the pang of self-commiseration. And at that early time of day!

It wasn’t that he was jealous of the mysterious Russian woman Childermass had been working with. It was another person that he was worried about, one that had held claims over Childermass’ acquaintance for a much longer time than the Russian woman, or indeed himself. “Do you still think that the book can help us bring them back?” He managed, hands slightly trembling, whilst he put the sketch back on the desk.

“I think the book holds the key to our knowledge of English magic. If it brings them back, then it is a happy incident.” Childermass shrugged. “For the sake of Mrs Strange if anything.”

“And for yours?” Segundus replied, softly. He didn’t know exactly what prompted him to ask, but still he sensed that he must, strangely elated as if he was about to jump down of a precipice. It was one of those moments when one feels sorrow up to the very brink of his being, and yet craves more, so that he can be completely, utterly miserable.

Childermass gazed at him, his dark eyes unreadable, and took a deep breath. “Mr Segundus.” There was a knock on the door.

“Mr Childermass, I fear we can’t wait no longer.”

“I am coming.” Replied Childermass, his eyes still trained on Segundus. He straightened up. “It won’t take long. Will you wait?”

 _No_ , he wanted to answer, but Childermass's wide, brown eyes pinned him down, and when he was asked again: “Will you wait for me?”, Segundus whispered: “Yes”.

 

When Childermass had returned, an hour later, Segundus had been asleep, arms folded over the desk, hat on the floor. A hand softly placed on the curve of his back had sufficed to wake him up, and because he didn’t wish to stay in the printery, and because he wished to take a whiff of fresh air, they had ended up walking down Fleet Street until it became The Strand, and when they had talked sufficiently that they felt almost at ease with one another again, they had stopped at one of the numerous public houses.

“Is she helping you? With the reading?” Asked Segundus over his second pint.

“She wants to see if there is a similarity with _Sanskrit_.” Childermass rolled his eyes, expressing exactly what he thought of _Sanskrit_.

“Then why did you ask her for help?”

“It was she asked for mine. Wants to write an article for some language society. No hope for her if you ask me.”

“She is not any good?”

“Oh, she is good enough. The fact is that she is a _woman_ , Segundus.”

And Segundus saw, in Childermass’ raised eyebrows and in his sardonic smile, that he felt some kind of kinship with her- a kinship that himself could not take part in. That the linguist from Russia (Amalia Pavlova!) was a woman who was a scholar much in the same way that Childermass was a former servant who was a scholar, and that of course Childermass would help her, how could he not! He suddenly felt a surge of affection for the man, who suddenly appeared very vulnerable in his struggles with good society and very noble in his endeavours to help a fellow scholar. Since he hadn’t eaten a thing, and since he was already at his second pint, he even placed his hand on Childermass’, below the table and on the bench. At this Childermass shuddered, as if scorched, and took his hand away; fortunately Segundus was too distracted by his presence, and by the beer pleasantly buzzing in his ears, to be really offended.

“And how does Vinculus like her?” He asked instead.

“Tried to get her drunk a night that I left them alone. I found him on my steps the next morning, half frozen to death; apparently she had outdrank him.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman.”

“I suppose she is. Her husband is Bernard Opie.”[2]

“The _radical_?”

“Himself. You should have seen how happy _he_ was that I used to be a servant.”

Segundus grinned, which was recompensed by a conspiratorial look that seemed to say _can you imagine some people?_ , as if Childermass were disappointed with the drinking habits of Vinculus and the democratic tendencies of Bernard Opie and possibly the entire humankind, but not (just for that night, and exceptionally,) with Segundus. He had very expressive eyes. Segundus thought that they were rather beautiful.

 

They fetched another pint, and Segundus talked and talked of Starecross, of the progress of the students, of how the new scullery maid was faring. He talked of the classes that he was going to teach and of all the improvements that he would like to implement, once the money came, and of the slow progress of his biography of Jonathan Strange. Childermass listened while smoking his pipe, asked questions about the routine of his classes, and laughed at the description of the strange sound Mr Honeyfoot made while doing magic. Soon enough Segundus had ran out of stories to tell.

“It is very queer, Mr Childermass.” Childermass raised an eyebrow. “...You are paying attention to what I say! You normally don’t seem to. What I mean is you do, but in your own way, which is to say that only half of you listens.”

“Do I then. And what does the other half do.”

“Plotting, I imagine.”

Childermass huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “I always pay attention. To you, at any rate.”

 

They finished their beers in companionable silence, and when they went out, in the warm summer night, the sky was dark and a full moon danced upon the chimneys of London.

“Where are you lodging?”

“Islington.”

“It is far from here. Maybe you should see for a hansom cab.”

“No!” Exclaimed Segundus, louder than he intended, a hand splayed in front of his face. “It’s just- I don’t have the- I don’t mind the walk.”

Childermass assented, slowly. He was about to say something, but Segundus interrupted him. “Don’t even think about paying for me.”

“As you wish. Shall I walk you then? Scare the robbers away and all.”

“I would be surprized if they found anything worth stealing.”

Childermass agreed, but said that he would like to walk with Segundus all the same. When Segundus took his arm, he didn’t push him away, but- if Segundus wasn’t wrong- even leaned into him a little, walking slower than his usual pace. He didn’t budge away even when the streets and pubs and theaters left their place to trees and grand houses, nor even when they passed the graves of the St George’s Gardens and Segundus let his arm slither across his back, his hand settle on his side. Maybe Childermass blamed it on the fact that Segundus was tipsy, and unsteady, and only sought balance; but maybe he was as affected by the drinks as Segundus was, because he slowly placed an arm about his shoulders, and in this way they walked until Segundus’ inn, just in front of the Sadler’s Well.

“Care to go see Grimaldi[3]?” Joked Segundus, nodding towards the theater.

“Not brave enough.”

“It’s the makeup! Makes him scary. I’m scared even by the illustrations. Promise me you will never print those postcards.”

“I promise.”

Their eyes met. Segundus felt a warmth spreading from his very core, like a sort of languid courage; in short, he felt that he was irresistibly attracted to Childermass and he shall kiss him now. This is why, when he said “Thank you,” it was not without a certain solemnity. He loosely tied his arms around Childermass’s neck, so that their eyes were on a level, and Childermass stayed, studying him intently as if torn between the will to flee and the curiosity about was about to come. As if perhaps Segundus had hypnotized him, even just a little bit, which was a warming thing to think of. Dizzy with power and affection, Segundus repeated: “Thank you,” this time as a sort of coded warning, and then he kissed Childermass firmly on the lips.

For a brief, glorious moment, he felt something akin to triumph, as if Childermass would doubtlessly kiss him back; he sensed it in his hitching breath, in the frantic beating of a heart so close to its own (indeed equal to his own, which resonated in his ears, loud, pounding). In how his muscles had tensed, and then slacked, against him; in the gentle press of the hands cradling his elbows. Then Segundus felt a grip on his shoulders, and before he knew it he was being pushed away from Childermass, and the kiss was over.

“Mr Segundus.” Childermass stood transfixed, his dark wide eyes intent on Segundus’ lips. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid you have drunk too much.”

Horrified, Segundus brought a hand over his eyes. He felt humiliated (reprimanded like a darned _schoolboy_ , he thought). A novel fury was growing inside him, a sensation most unusual, as all his feelings, that he usually kept so carefully checked, bubbled out of him all at once. “I waited for you! I waited and you never came!” He exclaimed, wrenching himself free of Childermass's hold; and then, as it dawned on him, not even a question: “It was never your business that kept you.”

“I did not wish to visit you.”

“You do not- what I feel, then, you do not...”

“It is not that.”

“Is it _him_ , then? You’re waiting for him..?”

“John.” Childermass reached for him, but Segundus, whom the mention of his Christian name had struck like a particularly unfair blow, saw in the pained expression on Childermass’ face that he was in the right about Gilbert Norrell (he might as well dare to _think_ the name, now!), and backed away.

“But why him!” He urged on, feeling dangerously close to tears, hands flailing at his sides. “You must know he never- What I mean is I know he didn’t...”

“Segundus.”

“He was too selfish for it!”

He must have struck a chord there, because Childermass grimaced as if he had been punched.

Segundus had never seen him look so shaken, paler or more tired. Childermass suddenly looked very young and very heartbroken, like the scrappy, scared child he once had surely been, and Segundus felt the urge to embrace him, for all of his rage, which made him despise himself even more.

Fortunately for him, at that point Childermass surged forward, grasping him by the lapels of his jacket, pushing him into the nearby wall. “You might want to _shut up_.”

Segundus knew, on some level, that he should feel scared to be pinned on the wall of a solitary alley by a disreputable man; not to mention having his head knocked, albeit incidentally, on said wall. Instead, he was euphoric. He had never seen Childermass truly lose his bearings, and the fact that a creature such as himself- boring and meek as he were- could have influence enough over Childermass as to provoke so strong a reaction made him feel hysterical with power. “You were just a servant.” He spat, almost incredulous of his cruelty, their mouths so close that he could feel the other man’s breath (shallow, frantic) ghosting over his lips. “And yet you act all high and mighty, as if this love of yours makes you so special. Well it doesn’t, John Childermass. You’re quite commonplace, in fact.”

“You know nothing of him, or me.”

Despite the summer night being warm and terse, it was as if a storm menaced to brew. Childermass looked for all intents as he was set on punching Segundus, who in turn felt like he would almost welcome it, as a proof of his having touched in some way the impenetrable fortress that was Childermass. In the moonlight, from such a close distance, Childermass's pupils were blown so wide as to make his eyes almost liquid; he had a knee between Segundus’ legs, chest against the other man’s chest. Segundus braced himself as Childermass fisted roughly at his shirt; he closed his eyes and waited for the blow, and there Childermass, who had always been a contrary man, kissed him.

 

* * *

 

[1] John Childermass wasn’t usually a man to misplace his tarot cards. However, during the Spring he had grown uneasy, and resorted to consult them more frequently than ever. What troubled him especially was that in the last six months he had extracted the card called “Les Amoureux” a hundred and thirteen times, which was a hundred times too many that he would have normally expected. The card depicts a man who is torn between the affections of two women, one a stern scholar wearing a crown of leaves, the other a sweet and kindly maid. Childermass interpreted it as a sign that he felt uncomfortable about having neglected practical magic since he had taken over the printery.

[2] Bernard Opie (1795-1888) was a famous philosopher and radical, who advocated for free education and the abolishment of the crown. Elected in 1822, he would successfully establish a system of grants for poor students who sought magical education, the precursor of the modern Grant for Superior Magical Education. Late in his life he formed an affectionate friendship with his younger colleague Karl Marx, whose theories he is believed to have influenced. They famously exchanged ideas during weekly games of cards.

[3] Joseph Grimaldi (1778-1837) was a popular entertainer at the time of Childermass's and Segundus's encounter. He was a skilled clown and dancer, who had started performing at the Sadler’s Wells theatre at the age of three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph Grimaldi did exist. Bernard Opie, however, didn't (and the world is all the more bleak for it)!  
> I tried to be faithful to the London of the 1810s, which I knew nothing about before starting to write this, but I'm afraid that some things are still very victorian-sounding (a period which I'm slightly more certain about). However, steam-powered presses did exist! The Times established one in 1814, overnight, so that the newly unemployed workers wouldn't protest. THESE TORIES I SWEAR.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Segundus teaches a spell and takes a decision.

“Let us try again, Harry.”

“Is just it’s hard to get the lines glittering, sir.”

Once again, Segundus shewed the boy how to part the water in four sections. “It was troublesome for me as well, at first. It is a very complicated spell.”

Dutifully, with a remarkably tiny, ink-smudged finger, Harry Johnson traced wobbly lines on the water. They didn’t precisely glitter, but emitted a faint, blueish luminescence, which, imperfect as it were, was still a great improvement on Harry’s precedent trials (and, to be quite honest, on Segundus's own disastrous first times). Segundus allowed himself a brief moment of pride, and beamed at his student, only thirteen and already an accomplished magician.

This does not mean that the slightly round, timid Harry was Segundus's favourite, for indeed he was always proud of all of his students. It was true that often magic was as much a matter of natural inclinations as it was of education, so he shouldn’t think that their successes were entirely his own merit, and he didn’t! But he was always eager to encourage whatever talents his students had, and this at least he considered worthy of pride.

“Have you cast the spell? Very well. Now we have to concentrate about the person we wish to see in the water. Who were you thinking about, Harry?”

“My mum, sir.” Blushed the boy. “It’s just I haven’t seen her in a month, and...”

“It is an excellent idea.” Segundus interrupted, squeezing his arm in comfort and receiving a bright smile in return. He felt the tension rippling away from the boy even before he saw his shoulders slumping with relief. He felt stronger for it himself.

John Segundus was not always confident of being as good at his profession as he should. Sometimes, for instance, he had tea falling over his notes and had to improvise a class entirely; or, in consoling a girl whose mirror had exploded, he felt absolutely at loss for words and had to call Mr Honeyfoot for help. In times like this, however, when he did and said the right thing at the right moment, he felt more like a teacher and an adult should be. He cherished these small successes like a treasure.

“Your mum it is, then. Close your eyes, concentrate...” He smiled encouragingly, shewing the boy how to draw the squares, which stood for Heaven, Hell, Earth, and Faerie, on his own larger basin. He projected his own thoughts on Mr Honeyfoot, whom he was sure he would find in his own parlour, engaged in a safe activity such as drinking a glass of claret.

The water fluttered, then emitted a soft glow, and on its surface appeared none but the ever unsafe John Childermass. He sat in a drawing room, smoking his pipe, on his face a look of utter boredom that rapidly changed to confusion, and then outrage, when his eyes seemed to meet Segundus’s. Thus discovered, Segundus, on the verge of panick, plunged his hands in the water and mixed it frantically. Fortunately Harry was completely taken with the magic, and only lifted his eyes from his own basin at that moment.

“Are you quite all right, sir?”

“Just a spell of dizziness,” lied Segundus, and then, with fake levity, he asked: “Have you seen your mother?”

“I think I have. She was giving Harriet a right thrashing, she was, God bless her!”

“Good, that’s- very. Good, I suppose..?” Smiled Segundus, albeit in the midst of his own turmoil he took care to feel a little sorry for the poor Harriet.

They rinsed the basins and put the books upon the shelves, and then he dismissed the boy for the night.

In truth, he did not consider their session finished. Had this been a normal evening, Segundus would have asked Harry to try the spell again, this time visualizing a person he did not know very well. As he had experienced personally, it was all too easy to view in the basin a person one had strong feelings towards, even one, like John Childermass, towards whom one was not quite sure about which sentiments they harboured.

Done with work for the present, he slumped on his favourite chair near the fire, took off his shoes and tried to concentrate on his novel: to no avail. It certainly did not help that it was a romance. Every time the hero scorned the heroine, which happened surprisingly often, he felt the same wound echoing deep in his soul. For scorned he had been, and after having been kissed, which was doubly as bad!

Whenever he thought of the fateful night of a month before, he felt the pang of a keen embarrassment. Not that Segundus was entirely unaccustomed to the feeling; on the contrary, he had been embarrassed in his life, oh, quite an amount of times. Only it had never happened in this way, and never, he feared, it had mattered as much to him.

Determined by any means not to be crushed by the unsavoury experience, he had decided that the best solution was not to think too much about it, if he might.

He had found, to his dismay, that he might not.

However much he tried (but often it was not even all that much), sometimes the memories came unbridled, which in turn made _thinking_ very much an inevitability. The thinking would happen to him at the most inconvenient of times: while shaving, which sometimes had provoked him to cut himself; or while teaching, so that the chalk on the blackboard suddenly didn’t spell quite what he had intended to.[1] Even at times like the present occasion, when he was comfortably sat on his armchair, the whole reminding business wasn’t less burdensome.

The fact was, that everything was so inexplicably _vivid_! For a person who could never recall precisely what he had had for lunch the day before, or the colour that Mr Honeyfoot liked so much for his waistcoats,[2] he remembered a great deal of details about the- the _incident_. If he concentrated (not that he wanted it, but sometimes concentration came as a natural consequence of reminiscence), he could almost still feel rough hands in his hair, and a mouth against his, and the agonizing slide of Childermass’s tongue on his lips. This in turn would never fail to evoke in him a sensation quite like- _openness_ , for want of a better word; a certainty of being absolutely and utterly naked, which he had felt for the first time when Childermass had kissed him, and then interrupted their kiss. Barely thinking, betraying himself, how foolishly he had trailed after him then, eyes still closed, begging for more! And then of course the scorning had happened (for scorning _it had been_ , even if wordless). Childermass had fetched Segundus’s hat, which had fallen off in the commotion, and placed it back on his head. He had bid him good night, and there had been no contact ever since.

A part of Segundus did not wish ever to see Childermass again. He had been steady in this resolution since the morning he had woken up in his inn next to the Sadler’s Well, reminisced about the events of the previous night, and fallen back on the bed with a pained groan.

Much to his frustration, there was another part to him, which he was afraid was the truest, that made him waver in his resolve, and still called for Childermass, and ached, let alone desired many things that Segundus had never thought he had the capability, or the greatness, to desire. Among these were a-many improper things, true; but most of all it was Childermass’s forgiveness he strived for, as on their last encounter he had said some things that he very much regretted.

The thought of it made his long nights even longer, and yet he never wrote to Childermass to make amends. For there was yet another part of him- the worst, which he kept hidden even to himself, that was enraged at Childermass because he had kissed him and yet left him all alone; because he had never visited Starecross over the Spring, and because he loved Gilbert Norrell.

 

“Mr Segundus? Sir!”

“What is it!”

“You were sleeping on your chair. Again.”

Segundus groaned, brushing the sleep away from his eyes. “What do you mean again.”

Martha made a face. She was very good at making faces, and this one conveyed with great precision the meaning of _It’s not as if I don’t see you sneaking in your room in the wee hours_. Tutting between herself, she ignored Segundus’s plight for more sleep and went to open the window, merciless and efficient.

A summer gale came in, and it was as if she had magically set the day into motion.

With the curtains open, a fresh scent of lavender rose from the garden. The bright light of the morning flooded the air, making motes of dust twinkle and settle on the furniture, which, in the warmth, smelt of the honey used for polishing it. Martha’s dark skin glowed in the sun, assuming an almost golden hue. Segundus felt, despite his uncomfortable night, quiet, and he huddled in the blanket someone must had thrown over him- like a small act of love.

“Shouldn’t sleep so close to the fireplace, sir. You’re going to burn your feet off!”

“I was very cold. What time is it?”

“It is seven. You have History of Magic with the girls in one hour.”

“...Sir.”

“Sir, yes.” Martha corrected herself, pouring two cups of tea; one for Segundus, one for herself.

As the new scullery maid, it was not really her duty to bring breakfast over to her master, let alone her right to sit with him and drink her morning tea. But this was Martha’s first job as a scullery maid,[3] and she wasn’t quite so sure about what it entailed precisely; besides, she was a very friendly girl. Segundus, on his part, had barely had any servitude since when he was a young boy, and he had not the faintest idea what a scullery maid was for, or how to manage her. They went along splendidly.

“Milk?”

“Please.”

Martha sat on the chair opposite Segundus, spreading butter on a toasted slice of bread.

“There is something I have to tell you,” she said with a certain gravity, nervously jiggling her leg.

“Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

“Please don’t tell me that you are...” Segundus found himself at loss for words. He blushed, then raised his eyebrows suggestively, then looked nervously around himself and settled to only mouth: “I n t r o u b l e,” all the while gesturing somewhat spasmodically around his own belly.

“No!” Exclaimed Martha, looking somewhat flustered. Her expressive face told precisely: _I would without a doubt swat your arm if that was permitted_. She fished something out of her apron, all the while giving him the side-eye. “A letter for you came in the mail.”

“Must be the family of one of the students.”

“Ahem.”

“Martha?”

“It says it’s from one John Childermass, sir.”

“Uh, oh.”

“Here, sir.”

“You are dismissed, Martha.”

“May I not stay?”

“Most certainly not!”

When Martha had left the room (albeit after some convincing), Segundus settled on drinking his tea and eating his bread and marmalade before opening the letter.

It was not that he was perfectly collected. In fact, quite the contrary was true: he was so afraid of what the letter could contain that he wished to put back the moment of revealing as much as he could. The delay, of course, had the only effect of making him even more anxious, and when he finally resolved to break the sigil he did so with trembling, sweaty hands.

The letter said:

_Mr Segundus,_

_The Lady Opie believes that she has undisclosed important developments concerning Our Book._

_She intends to communicate them personally to me in her own house in London, on a date yet to set._

_I would wish for your presence there as well, if that is possible. I beg you to put our disagreements behind and join me, as I believe that you would do a very great disservice to yourself if you were to abandon our common research out of spite._

_John Childermass_

 

How insolent, thought Segundus, that Childermass should presume what constituted a great disservice to himself! And “spite” was certainly a most unkind choice of words for what he felt in regards to their- what had he called it?, “disagreement”. How diplomatic, calling “disagreement” the _breaking_ of his heart!

He was so nervous- quite fuming, in fact, that he started to pace the room, and had to drink another cup of tea to fortify himself. In the end, he resolved to read the letter once again, hoping to find inspiration for a scathing response. Only then he noticed that Childermass had written:

 _I **beg** You to put our disagreements behind_.

It was true that the proper friendship between them had been quite short (short-lived as well, thought Segundus bitterly). However, Childermass and Segundus had been acquainted for many years previously, and never in all that time Childermass had shewed signs of being capable, let alone willing, of the act of _begging_. Yet there he was, asking that he should reach him in London to assist in his studies.

It was that which finally melted Segundus’s heart, already quite vexed. He scribbled a reply and set himself to go to London once again.

 

* * *

 

[1] On one memorable occasion, Segundus had spelled “an ancient bore” instead of “an ancient lore” while explaining the properties of fungi-based medicine in popular beliefs. His students had found that excellent. Another time, while writing out a spell for them to copy, he had written “lizard” instead of “blizzard”, which his students had reported, they swore, without a hint of suspect. Later, when practising, a gentle rain of reptiles had fallen over Starecross in place of the hoped-for snow, hovering in the gardens for many weeks before dispersing in the nearby vegetation.

[2] Aquamarine for the day, peacock for the night.

[3] It is a fact little known that Martha Alridge (1803-1900), the influential (and only) sorceress of colour and anti-slavery activist of the 19th century, started off her career as a servant in the house of her mentor John Segundus. At the time of this story she was not only the scullery maid, but also, due to the tragic understaffing of the Starecross Academy, the junior kitchen maid and the maid. It is believed that her experience in the kitchen influenced her interest in gastronomical magic and enchanted foods, on which she wrote her seminal work _Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme: Herb Lore and Magical Stews for the Modern Cook_ , London, The Magic Text Society, 1855.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Segundus and Childermass are sorry, Segundus meets Amalia Opie _née_ Pavlova and a stone is found in a book.

The early afternoon was gloomy and cold.

It seemed as if a little bit of October had creeped into August, howling in the trees, blowing out hats from the heads of passersby. It was one of those summer days when Autumn seems to caress one’s neck with drizzle-fingered hands, hollering with thundering voice not to dare forget it.

John Segundus stood in the doorway of his inn, his coat failing around him, desperately holding to his one good hat. When the carriage arrived, although he feared the moment that he should get into it, he could not help but feel a little relieved.

An impeccable-looking valet dismounted from the front seat and opened the door for him. Inside the carriage, sure as rain, was Childermass, looking every bit as dark and shabby as he remembered him. Segundus gave a little cough; his heart seemed to be quite uncomfortably lodged in his throat.

They rode in uncomfortable silence for a while, which allowed Segundus ample time to feel increasingly wretched. Even when gazing out of the window, Childermass appeared to be studying him, weary as ever, plotting, thinking. Before, Segundus would have loved to be the object of such attention. As it was, he hated it; it made him feel scrutinized, as if Childermass were judging him (which was true) and finding him utterly inadequate (of this Segundus had no proof, but he took the liberty to _feel_ utterly inadequate nonetheless). When he could not stand the tension anymore, he blurted out: “For God’s sake say something Mr Childermass.”

To which Childermass smiled, almost innocently. It was most infuriating. “The weather is dreadful today. It was kind of the Lady Opie to offer us her carriage.”

“Oh, you’re an impossible man! Very well, then. I shall start. I am very sorry.”

If Childermass shewed signs of mirth at being called “impossible”, Segundus did not notice, busy as he was with pointedly not looking at the man in front of him. Concentrated on his own hands, twitching somewhat spasmodically in his lap, Segundus could not see Childermass’s eyebrows raising enquiringly, but at that point he knew him well enough to imagine his expression, and thus he went on: “I am very sorry to have said that you were only a servant. It was entirely unjust. In fact, I do not think that you have the capability to be _only_ anything.” He admitted, and immediately regretted it. When he finally dared to glance at Childermass, only for a moment, he saw that he was looking at him, although his expression he could not quite decipher. After a long pause he added, slowly and pensively, “Moreover, I suspect that nobody is ever just a servant.”

Those were the right words after all: at that, and only at that, Childermass let himself relax, a movement of heart that changed the atmosphere in the carriage, suddenly brighter for all the gloom outside. There Segundus raised his eyes once more, and saw that Childermass was considering him, and for the first time, maybe, not finding him entirely unworthy.

“Then I suppose that I am sorry too,” the man conceded. “For I have made you an injustice.” Though what injustice he was referring to, Segundus could not fathom and Childermass did not say. Was it the kissing or the leaving that he regretted? Segundus wanted to ask, ached to ask, for he thought a world of difference to lay in those predicaments, but he could not find the courage in him. In the end he just nodded his head, and the carriage stopped, and then there was no time for questions.

 

In Bloomsbury, at the time, there were many grand houses. The grandest of all was in Queen Square, and it had been bought five years previously by the youngest descendant of the Opie family, Bernard Opie.

The Opies belonged to one of the very few families of ancient nobility (its origins could be traced back to William the Conqueror), which, thanks to wise investments and wiser matrimonies, had managed not to squander, but to increase their patrimony. It is no marvel that, what with all the centuries of existing, what with the consequences of unhappy breeding practices, families of such ancient nobility should often have a queer cousin or two, and to this rule the Opies were no exception.[1] Among all the queer members of the family, however, nobody was deemed stranger than Bernard, who had married a Russian scholar and spent great sums of money to fund her studies; who in his spare time taught English to the poor immigrants,[2] and who advocated for a press free from grievous taxes.

The house where Bernard Opie and his wife lived was singular as well. If from the exterior it looked quite like any other fashionable house on the street, on the inside its decoration seemed to be only dictated by the bizarre whims of its owners. It was safe to say that on the walls were exposed all the painters that the Royal Academy had rejected in the past five or six years. The furniture, although fashionable and immaculately clean, was lined with all sort of oddities: human and animal skulls and bones, from when Amalia Pavlova had dedicated herself to the pursuit of natural science;[3] idols from India, where Bernard Opie’s father had served twenty years previously; but mostly books, of every species and everywhere. These gave the impression of being in no particular order, as if perpetually moved about by their curious owners and placed wherever it was that they finished reading them, which was exactly how things were.

Segundus was in equal parts intimidated and captivated; he wanted very much to pause and browse and inquire, but the servant who was escorting them did not seem in the mood for idle chatter, and in a businesslike fashion urged them through the long corridor towards the parlour, where his masters were expecting them.

 

When the doors to the parlour opened and Segundus finally met Amalia Opie _née_ Pavlova, he felt glad for his previous resolution not to resent her, for he decided that he very much wanted to be her friend; moreover, in his pettiest recesses, he suspected that a competition against her for Childermas’s heart wouldn’t be favourable to him.

Although she was not beautiful, she had an air about her that was infinitely inviting. It was not that anything in her appearance made one want to possess her, as the term might seem to indicate. Simply put, everything about her elicited in one the desire to partake of her company, which promised to be warm, and honest, and intelligent.

Her small frame was covered in bright-coloured muslin shawls, which gave her the curious appearance of an exotic bird; she had very round, very brown eyes that were rather impish, bright with wit and affection. When Childermass entered the room she greeted him warmly, her gloved hand lightly brushing his arm, and Segundus liked that about her as well, though it made a small dark thing much like jealousy stir in his stomach. They did make a striking couple, he thought not without bitterness, Childermass with his big dark eyes and his tall dark figure, Amalia Opie young and delicate, both slighted by their peers for unjust reasons, both much better than their supposed betters.

There, in the soft light of the candles, Segundus felt more undesirable than ever, his patched-up clothes even more discolored against the beautiful silk tapisserie, his figure slight and ungainly. At least, he thought not with a certain comfort, Bernard Opie looked as unmatched with his wife as himself did with Childermass. Slightly plump and bespectacled, he approached him to make his acquaintance, and together they sat on the settee.

After the niceties and comments about the weather, the best part of an hour was spent discussing the periodical that Lady Opie insisted on publishing. In it the King’s language would be discussed with the newest scientific methods, compared with languages both magical and not, of both Britain and the Continent, in the hope of reconstructing the lost Sidhe language. Amalia Pavlova had successfully obtained that a fellow young linguist from Prussia, recently come to London, should contribute with an article,[4] and apparently she and Childermass were debating on the opportunity of involving Humboldt in person.

Fascinated as he was, Segundus found that he could not contribute much to the discussion. Unlike Bernard Opie, who contented himself with assenting and sipping tea, he found himself to be easily distracted, by the paintings on the walls and by the books on the shelves, and by Childermass’s intent, purposeful expression. When Childermass, as it was deemed to happen, caught his eye, he merely smiled that inward smile of his, and Amalia Pavlova intercepted it, and their conversation was over.

“But enough with this. Mr Segundus, you must forgive me for having ignored you. You must be curious as to why I convocated you here!”

“Indeed I am, madam. Mr Childermass mentioned that you had discovered important developments?” He was ashamed to realize that he was almost quoting Childermass’s letter, which by then he knew by heart.

“Yes!” She answered, with a delighted twinkle in her eyes. “I found a stone.”

“A stone?”

“And where would you find a stone, Lady Opie?” Asked Childermass, moving from his armchair to lean on the fireplace, on Segundus’s side.

“Well in a book, obviously! Where else. Unlike certain gentlemen, I do not believe in meddling with moors and forests,” she said, which obviously was entirely untrue, gauging from the painting on the wall where she was depicted in full gear, under her the cliffs of Lyme Regis. At the same time, however, the utterance had made her look so much like Mr Norrell that Segundus felt an acute, albeit quite silly, depression.

She got up from her sofa and took a book from a small, beautiful writing table next to the huge window. She then stopt, and, as if it were absolutely natural, took the spectacles from her husband’s nose and donned them before sitting next to him, like that, as if her husband’s body was but a continuation of her own. Lord Opie, made slightly unfocused by the lack of spectacles, looked at her with so much naked affection in his fuzzy eyes that Segundus had to change his mind; suddenly they made the best-matched couple he’d ever seen. She leafed through the volume, a big tawny thing much like an accountant’s book. Segundus cast a glance at it, and saw that it was indeed a cadastre book of sorts.

“There it is: object 34.” Recited Lady Opie, delighted and slightly theatrical, looking every bit as she had rehearsed her revelation; this, considering how her husband did not seem baffled in the least, was very probable. It made Segundus smile (and a great deal melancholy) to think of the conjugal happiness of the Lord and Lady Opie. “A stone, inscribed in English, French and the King’s letters. It says it is on the property of a certain Mr Andrews, baronet.”

While it took a spell for Segundus to comprehend the magnitude of the matter at hand, Childermass looked immediately excited. That is, he looked excited for Childermass, which means he dropt some tobacco on himself while refilling his pipe.

“When can we envision the stone?”

“The farm is in Hertfordshire. We propose that we should call there tomorrow, and spend the night in the estate of my relatives there.” Said Bernard Opie.

“Tomorrow?” Exclaimed Segundus, forgetting himself. “But I had promised Tom Levy that I should be in York by Wednesday!” He looked at Childermass for help.

“Mr Segundus, but this is capital!” Interjected Lady Opie. “If we can compare the King’s letters with what languages we already know, we might be able to decipher the writings on Vinculus’s body.”

“Mr Segundus, I am sure we can arrange a way for you to be in York on time.”

And at that Segundus assented, damning his curiosity.

 

* * *

 

[1] Not very long before, for instance, a Gerard Opie had made the headlines of The Times for having travelled to the recesses of Himalaya in order to become a missionary priest. In 1745 Eleanor Opie, the great-aunt of Bernard, had sparked a sensation for wearing only a bright pink garter to a banquet.

[2] There exists a caricature of these endeavours, etched in 1811 by James Gillray (1757-1815), where the poor of the city seem only to be attracted by the ale and food that Opie provided along with his lessons. However, it is safe to say that the caricaturist probably had reason to be contemptuous toward Bernard Opie, with whom he had been engaged in a fight over Napoleon, whose ascent Lord Opie had initially sustained.

[3] Her study on dinosaur bones and their possible similarities with birds had been rejected by specialized publications, and her proposal to discuss it at the Geological Society was met with great laughter.

[4] The scholar was Franz Bopp (1791-1867), who two years previously had published his seminal work _Über das Conjugationssystem der Sanskritsprache in Vergleichung mit jenem der griechischen, lateinischen, persischen und germanischen_ Sprache. He and Amalia Pavlova would start a dear friendship, which would culminate in the publication, in 1820, of the first volume of _The Annals of Magical Languages_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is not too wildly inaccurate! I do try to be plausible, but I'm sure something escaped me. Let me know if you spot something particularly irksome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a stone that was found in a book is lost again, and of the other book in which it is found. Also, the King's Roads.

The day after, they set up early to go to Hertfordshire. It was a pleasant journey: the road was very good, and the summer seemed to have restored its claims over the land; under the sun, the coach was warm and full of light. Here and there the countryside was lined with cherry orchards, which bore the last fruits of the season like many rubies glinting under the sun. In the carriage with Childermass and the Lord and Lady Opie, discussing the best way of securing an allegiance with fruit trees, Segundus felt hopeful for the future for the first time in months, as if a part of him had been restored.

 

High as Segundus’s hopes might be, the visit proved partially unsuccessful. Firstly, when they alighted in front of Mr Andrews’s farm, they found that there was no suitable entrance for their carriage, and had to walk in the dust in order to reach the house. Then they found that Mr Andrews was not there and had to wait for quite a long time, having to find their own entertainment because the man lived alone, being a widower and his daughters all married off. Then the man arrived, and was so happy to have “grand people” in his residence that he became quite loquacious, so that it took some time before he stopt fretting addressed their questions.

“I do remember that stone, Madam and sirs,” he said, embracing them all with a slightly embarrassed glance. It seemed as if, in the fear of offending anyone, Mr Andrews had decided to ignore Childermass’s old coat and Segundus’s threadbare clothes, and to address them all in the same manner. “Unfortunately, my father did not abide to any of this _magical nonsense_ , as he called it, I beg your pardon. He had it removed along with such ancient, beautiful birches, oh, it was a heartbreaking sight, sirs- and Madam, to make a shed.”

“Certainly the stone has been stored away to safety.” Observed Lord Opie, removing his spectacles to clean them. They had grown quite obfuscated by the hot tea.

“I am dreadfully sorry sir, but my father would not hear a word about it. I do not know where the stone is now, but I’m afraid it has been thrown in some ditch once the work was over with.”

This elicited a variety of responses in his guests. Lord Opie had to clean his glasses once more; Lady Opie sucked air in a hissing breath; Segundus looked at Childermass, Childermass looked at Segundus. This required some artful craning of their necks, as Childermass was momentarily leaning on the back of Segundus’s chair.

“However...” Added Thomas Andrews, raising a pacificating hand lest any of the grand people would protest. “However my mother, God bless her, who was a fervent believer in John Uskglass’s return, commissioned an engraving of the stone just before it was removed, and I remember it to be quite faithful to the original. It was published in a book of magic, I believe, the _Almanac_...”

“...The _Almanac of Most Singular Magical Objects_.” Continued Childermass. At first he looked glad that he remembered, but then a realization sunk his features in a defeated expression. “The only three extant copies were in the library at Hurtfew.”

“If Mr Childermass would allow it, sir, it may not be so.” Coughed Mr Andrews, who looked like contradicting Childermass extolled him a conspicuous amount of energy. “For we owned one copy as well. My father, however, sold it immediately after the death of my poor mother.”

“All is lost then!” Exclaimed Segundus, sloshing some tea on his waistcoat with a jerking gesture of his arm.

Childermass, ever practical, offered him his handkerchief. “I have never heard that you had a copy of the _Almanac_ ,” he said, with a look that made it very clear that he found it displeasing that he did not know, and very queer.

“We did not buy it, as it was a gift from the publishing house for having given them the etchings. Maybe there was no record for it.”

“And is there any record as of who acquired the copy?” Asked Childermass.

The farmer said that he did not know, but he called a manservant to fetch him his accounting books. “It looks like it is an Italian gentleman who purchased it.”

Lady Opie clasped her hands to her chest, and sir Opie looked as close as a respectable man could to cartwheel. Even Childermass’s eyes had a different brilliance in them, as if of hope.

“If it is still in Italy, then we have some hope of retrieving it.”

“What is the name of the gentleman?”

“It says it is a _Conte_ Monaldo Leopardi, sir. I am afraid there is no address.”

“Maybe I can help then.” Interjected Segundus. “I have some distant relatives in Italy. Mind it, it may be a different state altogether- it is a very fragmented country, but I wonder if they might be of assistance.”

Thus the matter was settled: Segundus would write to his relatives and retrieve the address of the _Conte_. They would then discuss what to do. With that deliberation, and after some more fretting from Mr Andrews’s part, they set to the house of Lord Opie’s relatives.

 

There they ate dinner. The atmosphere was of careful glee, and it should have been distended, but it was made very stiff by the presence of Childermass. Or rather, it was made very stiff by the general reaction to the presence of Childermass. The Opies (the Hertfordshire Opies, that is) stared at him quite more than was necessary. Or rather, they did not stare, which would have been improper, as much as glanced very quickly in his direction from time to time and then went back to sipping their wine. They were never impolite (people of their breeding seldom are), but they very clearly showed that, in the embarrass of not knowing how to address him, they had simply chosen not to address him at all, if they might. Which made for awkward conversation considering how Bernard Opie, in the effort to putting the situation to rights, continued to drag a recalcitrant Childermass in the conversation; this, in turn, elicited in Segundus the mighty need to shelter him from harm, whis was of course ridiculous. First of all, the Opies were some of the most inoffensive people he had ever known, and, secondly and most importantly, Childermass could protect himself very well on his own, if he so desired (but he did not. He merely glanced at the Opies with a slightly bemused expression and left dirty thumbprints on their good chalices). On his part, Segundus was content to eat the feast, which was very good, in peace, just nodding politely and smiling at the ladies, and only sporadically talking of the success of his students- though he felt most uplifted when he saw that their enquiries were more polite than interested, for there were some things about his administration of Starecross which he feared they would not take really well. Moreover, he was always very anxious that some affluent person would take it upon themselves to finance his school alongside Mrs Lennox, which was silly of course, because that was exactly what he desperately needed.

When the end of the evening had come, and everyone had retired to their rooms, a feeling of restlessness washed over him. How was he to return to York in time? With the excitement of the day he had not given it too much pause, but now the night approached, and soon it would be Monday. When he asked Childermass what he should do they deliberated that the only solution were the King’s Roads, which he had only taken once, and only in the company of Hadley-Bright.

 

Segundus knew that magic did not look like that- not like in the popular literature of ten years previous, a dusty magician in a dim-lit room full of carcasses and smoke; he knew that it was more like a field, and like a storm, and like an unending thick expanse of briars and weeds- a beautiful twisted thing that grew in the shadows and in the moist heart. That it was dangerous and primeval, and not at all something that could be confined in the library of a grand house in Hertfordshire. However, in the dim flicker of one candle, with the light of the full moon filtering through the curtains, the fireplace grumbling near him, he felt more like a magician than ever, sat at the writing desk with Childermass hovering over him like a big ugly bird of prey.

“First you need Doncaster’s spell of revelation. Do you know Doncaster’s spell?”

“I am afraid I do not.”

Childermass dictated it to him, carefully watching over the most critical passages. He shewed him what signs to trace onto the mirror, holding his hand to guide his finger whenever he appeared to be hesitating.

“Then you cast a dissolution spell, for-”

“To melt the mirror’s surface.”

“Aye. All of them work these days, but-”

“I would use Strange’s, if that is acceptable.”

“And you weave these spells into a spell of path-finding.”

“I have a very good sense of direction,” observed Segundus, half in jest. To this Childermass stiffened up immediately.

“I know it is good. It is not good enough,” He replied with a certain urgency, clutching the back of his chair, leaning further towards him. “It may be good for England, it is not for the King’s roads. Please take the spell.”

Segundus frowned, and nodded. He wrote the spell dutifully, inscribing it in a circle that stood for _very important_. He shewed it to Childermass. “Happy?”

Childermass snorted, casting his gaze to the window. “And you will add an epitome of protection.”

“You were thinking Ormskirk?”

“I have made some modifications. It goes like-”

“I’m sure I won’t really need it?”

Childermass clenched his jaw, and looked very conflicted for a second. “Humour me,” he shrugged. How queer. It had seemed as if he had wanted to say a different thing altogether.

Segundus scrabbled the final version of the spell on a piece of paper, and when it was done they placed a chair in front of the fireplace, so that he could climb easily onto the mantel. Facing the mirror, under the watchful eye of Childermass, he cast the revelation spell and he cast the dissolution spell. He was about to add the epitome of protection, and he was uttering a most crucial passage, one foot already on the chair, when he fell.

Or rather, it was not falling, since falling implies losing one’s balance, and he had not; in fact, he had been made to fall. He felt a strong press of hands on his hips, warm breath on his neck. His magic faltered, then scattered away in scintillating feathers of light, not unlike the seeds of a dandelion when blown upon. In a matter of moments, his back was on the mantel. Faint with surprize at being so manhandled, he merely gazed at Childermass interrogatingly, too dry-mouthed to speak. He dared not move. Better, he found it impossible to do so. And where should he go? Of course he could have easily fled, in another part of the house or on the King’s Roads, but in that moment he felt that there was no escape; Childermass was all that there was.

The candle went out.

“You were right,” said Childermass, his hands leaving Segundus’s hips to pin him on the mantel. “About him. He did not,” at this he stopt. Childermass did not hesitate, was not capable of it as far as Segundus knew, and yet this looked very much like a hesitation. “He did not have the...”

“The moral standing?” Asked Segundus willfully, to which Childermass made a sound somewhere among a pained huff and a laugh.

“Do you?” Asked Childermass, somehow managing to make it sound like a dare, a jerking of his head.

“What, have the moral standing?”

Childermass hummed, while his fingers played with Segundus’s hair. It was the faintest, most delicate of touches, and hair is hardly a sensitive area of a body; yet Segundus shivered, almost overwhelmed. Sure that his fear (his fear and his _want_ ) shewed plainly on his face, he decided to go for the scathing reply, at least to save some of his dignity. He gestured vaguely at Childermass- at his intense face and his meandering hands and at their hips, obscenely close and almost touching. “I thought it- _this_ , was a matter of moral depravity,” he said, his voice thinner than he had meant.

“Is that what you’re after then? Moral depravity?” Asked Childermass, mockingly raising his brows. This was an expression that Segundus had seen many times across his face, yet he found that something was amiss, as if Childermass were reciting his normal assuredness without doing a very convincing job at it. The set of his mouth was all wrong, Segundus reflected.

“No.” He forced himself to look into Childermass’s eyes, which gradually opened into something like relief. Segundus suspected that this reply had been more important that it looked like.

“Good.” Croaked Childermass, a tone most unlike himself. “I saw you watching me.”

“I had not intended it. I am very sorry.”

“I have watched you too, and I, too, did not intend it. It seems like-“ and here he cupped Segundus’s face in his hands, gingerly. He had an air of the utmost concentration. “I find that I am drawn to you, despite my best intentions,” he said, and made to kiss him. In a heartbeat, Segundus reached for Childermass’s wrists and pried his hands away from himself.

It was less difficult that he expected- as things should, when one’s survival depends on them. Childermass let himself be steered with surprizing compliance. His felt very fragile in Segundus’s hands.

“Please don’t.” Asked Segundus, and yet his fingers, as if on their own accord, caressed Childermass’s wrists- his bones and his tendons and his heart, almost, which he felt under his fingers. Childermass sighed, and made for nuzzling his neck, but Segundus stilled him with the gentlest pressure.

“If you-” he started, but he found that as his hands slid from Childermass’s wrists to his forearms he was very much distracted by the feeling of him- how well they fit together, how thin the man actually was; how easy it would be to overpower him. He struggled for a moment to get a hold of himself, for he had started to feel quite dazed. “If you kiss me,” he explained, marveling at how steady its voice came out, once he had decided, “ _despite your best intentions_ , and then you leave me, as you did in London, you will be able to go about your life as usual.” Childermass snorted. “Don’t make that face. I know you will. But I won’t.”

“You would, though. You are a stubborn little creature.”

“ _Stubborn little_...” He repeated, befuddled. “Let it be so! It does not mean that I can be patronized, and have my books stolen, and my school closed, and- and myself kissed, _ad infinitum_ , so to speak, and do nothing about it, sir!”

“I should let you go then.”

Segundus nodded. In some way their faces had ended up being mere inches from one another again, so that his nose bumped on Childermass’s a little. He smiled a tight smile. “It is for the better.”

“I do not agree.”

“Well, it is not your place to agree, then.”

He crawled on the chair, he stept on the mantel, whence he cast his spell. He set to the King’s roads, alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People, this is a service announcement. I'm afraid that the next chapter will change the rating of this story to mature/explicit. I hope it is alright for all of you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two volumes of an Encyclopaedia are brought back to their righteful owner.

As the days passed and a rainy August left its place to  an even rainier September, John Segundus found- be that the steady change in the climate or his new-found respect for himself, that he felt surprizingly energized. Hard as his last exchange with Childermass had been, there had also been a satisfaction in it- almost an invigorating quality, in calling him out and retrieving his dignity. Segundus felt that he desired, no, he craved, new activities, so that there was not a single moment of idleness in his days.

He almost never longed for Childermass, who did not write anymore, and he almost never regretted how he had not let himself be kissed in a dark library full of magic. If he pondered of how things would have gone for him if only he had let it, well- that only happened in his idle moments, which he was glad to have very few of.

He had plunged himself into the teaching, and into the meetings of the Society of Magicians, of which there had been many in a short interval of time. When Segundus had informed the Society of the new developments brought about by Amalia Opie, its oldest members had not looked quite convinced. To tell the truth Miss Redruth was the only one among them, apart from Mr Segundus, to be openly enthused, and that in part stemmed out of female solidarity. There had been much debate whether to invite the Lady Opie to discuss her discoveries, and that discussion alone had required two rather animated meetings. Then there was the decision to cast a vote, with all the subsequent quarrelling as to how they should establish a majority.[1] When finally they deliberated that they should invite the Lady, the onus of writing her fell to Segundus- which of course brought about the question of whether he should write to Childermass as well. This in turn provoked a new wave of nervousness to wash over him. How best to write a man whom one very much wanted to see- except that they had declared the opposite? Segundus agonized on the matter for days after the final meeting of the Society of Magicians, and he would have certainly agonized about it a great deal more (and either worked himself into such a frenzy as to do something incredibly stupid or decided that it was entirely futile to write at all) if Childermass in person had not come to visit Starecross Hall, a rainy morning on the seventh of September.

 

A cold wind blew from the East.

The sun had just risen, or rather it would have been, if only it were visible; the hour was seven o’ clock in the morning, and yet it looked like seven o’ clock in the evening. A dark mist rose from the moor, black clouds filled the sky; unleashed by the first real storm of the season, a sort of nervous energy seemed to have wrung itself upon Starecross Hall. Segundus, who was particularly sensible to said energies, had awoken at five in the morning. He had sat on the windowsill ever since, a blanket upon his shoulders, a volume of poetry (Endymion) in his hands. He waited- truth be told, he did not know what he waited for, but he felt with all his being that something would happen, and that if that was the case he would do better to stay alert.

His feelings proved entirely justified when, from his vantage position, he saw a black horse galloping towards Starecross, seemingly unbothered by the weight of its his two passengers.

He should have waited. He should have changed into warmer clothes, and combed his hair; maybe brushed his teeth. However, he found, in the galvanic air of the morning, that he could not. Shuddering with cold, his coat held like a canopy above his head, Segundus rushed into the storm to meet Childermass in the stables.

There he found Brewer, Childermass’s big beast of a horse, still in his saddle and bridles. Its wet fur was almost fuming in the warm shed, dripping on the dry hay, and it seemed as disgruntled as ever, even as it was munching on a bale of hay. Segundus patted it affectionately on the neck; inhaled the earthy, comforting smells of horse’s sweat and rain-moist earth and blooming moor, and the slightly disquieting one of Childermass, sooty, leathery, maddening. Crouching on the other side of his horse to Segundus, he was intent on unpacking his saddlebags.

“And where is Vinculus?” Asked Segundus.

Childermass raised his head in surprize, almost hitting it on Brewer.

“Mr Segundus!” He exclaimed, rising on his feet.

He was, Segundus considered, a little bit worse for wear. Wet and unshaven, pale from the lack of sleep, Childermass had heavy bags under his eyes and dirty matted hair. This, however, did not repel Segundus. On the contrary, he found that it made him, quite astonishingly, want to hold onto the man (and also: to peel away his wet clothes, give him a good bath, press him into the fresh linen of a warm bed and very slowly, very mathematically, kiss all the worries away from his face).

“I suspect that he is pestering your cook for some breakfast. He mentioned being _famished_.” Childermass rolled his eyes, unhooking the horse’s saddle.

“And what are the both of you doing here?” Asked Segundus, hands fisted on his sides, making a big show of being indisposed by the presence of Childermass even as it dawned on him that he was not angered by it, but instead felt as if a burden had been lifted off his chest.

“I have those volumes of your Encyclopedia with me. You had forgotten them in London again. I presumed that you would miss them.”

Which was of course an absurd reason to come all the way from- _oh_.

“I also presumed that you would never write to ask them back, if left to your own devices.”

 _You bastard_! Offered Segundus’s mind in retaliation. Segundus would not repeat it, but exhaled vehemently in an approximation of anger. Of course he was not angry at all, as he had previously assessed; however, he felt as if he should show a modicum of anger nonetheless, seen the- difficulties that his other numerous feelings would bring up, if left to do as they pleased.

“You could have had them sent to me.”

“Yes, well. Mailing books is very expensive in London. Thought I might as well come here. And Vinculus missed Starecross too.”

“ _Vinculus_..!” Segundus huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “I had told you not to come.”

“You never told me not to come here. You merely asked me not to pursue you.” Replied Childermass, all his attention focused on removing the bridles off Brewer. He went to hang them, returned.

“Which you are now doing.”

“Which I am now doing. I will leave you be if you so desire. But I do not think you do.”

If Segundus felt offended at this, he forgot to register it. Instead he was bewildered: how did Childermass always _know_? It was almost uncanny, like being read, like being naked, like being _invaded_ by him. He was glad that Brewer was standing between them, apparently unaware of the tumult going on inside him, or he was afraid he should do something very stupid, like kissing the haggard smug tired _impossible_ man in front of him. See if he could surprize him in this, at least.

Eventually, he did not kiss Childermass. He inhaled a shaky breath, clutched his hands to his chest, and invited him inside to have some breakfast, a paragon of distant politeness. He himself had the classes of the day to finish preparing and to hold, and he invited Childermass to sit in the library with Vinculus, if he would. Between these things and other small inconveniences, they only saw each other at supper. There they sat together, Segundus blowing on his soup, Childermass sipping it without apparent pause as to how hot it was.

 

“I have made some enquiries. It is no wonder you’re so poor!”

“Uh?” Mumbled Segundus, over a morsel of bread. And then: “You have made _what_?”

“Does your housekeeper not know how to make the accounts? When was the last time you checked them?” Continued Childermass, in an insinuating tone like he was mocking him.

“My housekeeper knows very well how to make the accounts.” Segundus stared intently at his soup, stirring it.

“So what is the matter? With all the money your patroness gives you, you should be able to maintain more servants. And buy yourself some new clothes, while you’re at it.” Childermass’s tone was even more insinuating now. Segundus felt himself hunching his shoulders. Suddenly he had no appetite; he pushed his plate away from him.

“I suppose...”

“I know of Miss Redruth’s classes.”[2]

Segundus sighed.

“Why don’t you ask Mrs Lennox to help you with that?”

“Because it is my own endeavour, Childermass,” sighed Segundus, head in his hands. “I do not want people to interfere, or tell me how I should go about, or even _if_ I should go about in this manner.”

“You could find other patrons.”

“The voice would spread.”

“I could help you find-”

“I do not desire someone should take this from me.”

At this at least Childermass had the decency to look slightly crestfallen. He made to say something, but he seemed to think better of it, and ate the last of his roast potatoes in silence.

 

After dinner they retired to the library, having decided not to rouse Vinculus, who had fallen asleep on a chair in the kitchen, next to the hearth.

“It was Martha told me of Miss Redruth’s classes."

“That traitoress!”

“She told a great many things; she likes talking about you. I think that she admires you very much,” said Childermass slowly, as if he were painstakingly attempting to convey with this a meaning that was similar, but not the same, to what he was telling. He had a glint in his eyes almost of fondness. “She told me that you are teaching her magic. Are you teaching magic to your scullery maid?”

“They do say servants make the very best magicians.”

“Do they, now,” grinned Childermass, hands clasped behind his back.

They reached the library.

Deserted as it were, a warm fire crackling in the fireplace, it was the very image of scholarly quiet, with all the students already gone to bed and the servants not yet finished with cleaning the dining room. It was peaceful, like this, with the reading desks polished and free of clutter, with the books all secure in their shelves, in the air the faint gleam of spells clumsily and enthusiastically cast by young magicians. In the silent library Segundus could almost imagine another life, in which Childermass did not have to leave for London and they could live together, make Starecross their home. They would not be unhappy, he thought, with magic to do and people to teach to, in the North, never having to care for respectability or having to withstand the society of any grand people.

This of course was an impossible dream; they would not be happy at all, secluded from society, and he knew that! The world in which he and Childermass now lived in was infinitely more exciting than his fantasy, with its magical books to decipher and its magical courts to establish, not to mention its magical law to restore and its magical men to bring back from distant lands. But how could Segundus not hope, even if for a while? The end of the summer was sweet and a fresh wind rustled the trees. Whishes like these seemed possible on such a night, near and almost touchable- crisp, and cool, and glowing, like the promise of Autumn in the air.

“Miss Redruth’s classes, the scullery maid. Mr Segundus, are you transforming into a radical?”

Childermass had that glint in his eye again, which Segundus could not read. He felt that something that had been stirring between them for a long time had been set in motion with the arrival of Childermass, a powerful entity that now hummed and whirred between them, like magic or complicated machinery, but not quite.

“And even if I were! Magic has been restored to England. The Raven King walks among us, Childermass, this you believe as well.” He looked into the other man’s eyes, which he found already trained on him. It made him acutely aware of how incensed he had become, his hands gesturing wildly and awkwardly, his voice louder than he had intended. He leaned on the table behind him, gripping its edge to give his hands something to do. Lowered his voice. “Are we not to make a new England? What good is it, I wonder, if not all of us can partake of it?” He gazed at Childermass again, wide-eyed. Childermass did not reply, but came closer to him, so close in fact that his legs were between Segundus’s slightly parted ones. He loomed over him with his head tilted and eyes very dark.

“I am-” he whispered.

“Yes,” murmured Segundus, his mouth parched, and Childermass made a noise as if of desperation.

They kissed hungrily and messily, crushing against each other with no refinement. Childermass pressed Segundus onto him, hands on the small of his back; tugging at Childermass’s hair, Segundus beckoned him closer, opening his mouth to the wet slide of his tongue, relishing in the galvanic brilliant _terrifying_ headiness of the kiss. When Childermass bit softly at his lower lip, he heard himself making a tiny, helpless moan. He could feel the other man's magic bolting through him in tendrils of light, running in his veins, making his head light and his knees buckle.

“Was it the- the egalitarianism?” He asked after a fashion, flustered and incredulous, assessing Childermass’s reddened lips, and tousled hair, and his fast breath. Himself was not much better, sitting on the table in a very undignified manner, his legs now wrapped around Childermass’s waist.

“I am very sensitive to egalitarianism,” huffed Childermass in a disbelieving grin, and then pressed a kiss to his cheek, and to his jaw, and- they were about to resume the kissing on the mouth, which was a very pleasurable business, when they heard a sound of footsteps coming from the dining room. They separated immediately, Childermass to lean on the mantel, Segundus sliding from the table to sit on a chair; it was a matter of seconds before Charles the footman was at the door.

"The gentlemen need to be prepared for the night?”

Segundus gave a little cough. “Has the fireplace in our apartments been lit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then thank you, Charles. You may retire. I- er, shall call for you if need arises.”

They listened to the sound of Charles leaving, on edge, Segundus trembling slightly both with the knowledge that they could have been discovered and with the great excitement of the kiss.

“It will be better if I retire too,” said Childermass. Flushed and slightly tense, as he were, with eyes too big and swollen lips, he looked suddenly more approachable. And so Segundus approached him, and put his hand on his cheek. This, too, felt intoxicating, this _touchability_ of Childermass that had seemed so remote, and that was now there, not so much in the fact that Childermass let himself be physically touched, but, on a more subtle level, in the hitch in his breath when Segundus’s hand touched his skin, in the way his features softened when he pressed a small kiss to the back of it.

“Come to my room,” said Segundus, for it was not a question. He spoke in a whisper; he felt that had he to say it out loud, he would never have the courage.

“This is a very dangerous invitation.”

“I am aware of it."

"We were almost discovered already."

"But we were not."

"I cannot do this to you."

Segundus huffed.

"It is not only that. It is possible that I will leave you again, after- I do not wish to, now, but I have it in me."

It was not that Segundus was not terrified by the thought that someone should find them out, or Childermass leave him again. It was simply that he was certain that they were close to an agreement, and should he let Childermass go back to his room, give in to his fears, they would be back to where they were that morning in no time, and that he simply could not allow that. So he made his voice soft, his gestures slow. "Childermass." He carefully reached for his hand, intertwined their fingers. "Are you not tired of this wretched waltzing around each other?"

"Of course I am!"

"Won't you come with me, then?"

Childermass seemed to ponder this for a long time, a tortured frown upon his face. “Yes,” he finally capitulated, in a grave, guarded way, as if he were letting out a big secret, and as if he were not happy at all about it. He grasped Segundus's hand, as if to steady himself.

And so they went.

 

* * *

 

[1] Should the majority be calculated on the total number of voters or on the total number of seats? And would a fifty per cent of voters plus one do as a majority, seen as the members of the Society of Magicians were of an uneven number? And, most importantly, was Miss Redruth’s vote to be considered of the same value of those of her male counterparts?

[2] Mr Segundus had decided to offer lessons on basic magic to the children of the nearby villages, and had appointed Miss Redruth, who was very skilled at holding difficult classes, as the teacher. This also had the collateral effect of providing Miss Redruth with an income, which she sorely needed in order to progress her studies of magic without a husband. The classes were held thrice a week, in the Starecross churchyard when the weather was beautiful and inside the church when it rained, which was most of the times. The operation was conducted at Segundus’s own expenses, including Miss Redruth’s fee and food and drinks, in order to encourage the parents to make do without useful hands in the fields.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No change of rating after all! Sorry for messing that up a little bit. This chapter ended up being so long that I had to split it in two. Also sex is hard to write.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the magic happens (wink wink nudge nudge).

It was a difficult process.

First they had to come out of the library, which was somehow impeded by Childermass grabbing Segundus’s arm and kissing him against the table, and then a wall, and then, very furtively and very urgently, against the doorjamb. Then they had to cross the hall without touching, in fear someone should see them, which was a veritable trial and had them giggling madly, as silently as they could muster, which made Childermass’s shoulders shake slightly in the effort and Segundus want to embrace him. When they finally made it on the stairs Segundus preceded Childermass, who took hold of his hand and bit at his finger, gently and wetly. This had Segundus almost toppling down the stairs, which made him to clutch the handrail after, which slowed his ascent very much.

 

When they finally entered the room Segundus went to the door, and, wary as to make as little sound as possible, turned the key into the lock.

Everything became very quiet all at once.

His back pressed to the door, he looked at Childermass while Childermass looked at his room. He felt apprehension; he felt, again, that he was being invaded. He perceived the contradiction of it, seeing as this invasion he had invited, no, welcomed, upon himself; yet he could not help a sense of utter nakedness, and underneath, a fear.

He tried to look at his room with fresh eyes, and it suddenly seemed too tidy. He did not know if Childermass approved. It painted a very uninteresting picture of him- that of a poor sad man who spent far too much time wrapped up in fantasies. It was not that this was untrue; but he did not wish Childermass to know just yet, and, if it were possible, ever.

He felt as if his life were written, in merciless flowery golds, on the spines of his romantic novels; neat as the neat folds of his beddings, it was in some way very artificial (like the hyacinths on the windowsill that he had made to sprout in September- a small selfishness, a crime against nature). He was suddenly stricken by the fear that Childermass would want to leave him again, for the sheer blandness of him, for his sickening primness; but Childermass did not leave.

“This is a very proper room,” he observed instead.

Segundus moved to the center of it, though he did not think he had any part in the decision; rather, it was as if the pull of a great magnet was driving him, slowly but inexorably, towards Childermass, and he was only being steered by it, all attempts to resist long since forgotten. He only stopt when they were so close that the tips of Childermass’s fingers brushed the lapels of his jacket.

“You are a very proper man,” said Childermass, his head tilted matter-of-factly, as if to dissuade him. Segundus stood very still under his prying eyes, willing himself to stop his breath from hitching when Childermass’s gaze lingered on his lips. Childermass undid the first of his buttons, and then the next one, and the one after that, with consumed adroitness. He eased the jacket from Segundus’s shoulders, let it fall on the floor.

“What the both of us are set on doing, that is not a very proper thing,”

“I know.” Said Segundus. If he was laconic, it was because his mouth was so dry that he was not able to express himself more eloquently. “It is alright. Only-” He found that he could not talk like this, with Childermass looking at him- at his hesitation- with dark amused eyes, hair falling in front of his face; he had grown quite distracted with the thought that he would like to pull it aside to look at Childermass’s face, and then with the realization that he was allowed it, and then with the feeling of Childermass’s ragged hair under his fingers. When Childermass sighed, leaning into his touch, it made Segundus almost blind with tenderness.

“Have you ever-”

“Aye.”

“Was it with-”

“No.”

“I have never...” He placed his fingers on Childermass’s neck, so that he could look at him; he found himself unable to convey the depths of his inexperience otherwise. Childermass hummed and then nuzzled at his neck, kissing him there, and Segundus found that, for all that this made his voice falter and his body sway,  it was easier to talk like this. “I mean, there was a girl once. She had very clever hands.”

“I am a very clever man.” Childermass made that last remark sound so filthy, so incredibly lewd, that Segundus immediately felt his heart beat madly and unnervingly, not so much in his chest, as it should be, but in his mouth and his head and his hands. All his blood rushed to his face, and then, inevitably, to his cock.

“That you are.”

“Let me- please, I.”

“Oh.”

Childermass fell on his knees. He took off his own shoes and then Segundus’s. With excruciating slowness and somewhat clumsy fingers he removed Segundus’s breeches, and then his stockings, and when Segundus was in his smallclothes, trembling slightly, he nuzzled gently at his crotch, and inhaled a deep and enticing breath, stroked his cheek against it, licking through the light fabric- the tip of his tongue lingering just so that his spit pooled in small damp stains on it. A sort of hopeless sound escaped Segundus, just as his erection grew something uncomfortable; he found that he was embarrassed by it, which he realized was somehow at odds with the nature of the endeavour but could not help in any way. And so he placed his hand on Childermass’s matted hair, and the man looked at him with such deep dark _hungry_ eyes that Segundus’s voice faltered a little when he asked, “Up here, would you...?”

Childermass obliged. He went on his feet, trailing his hands on Segundus’s waist, and his arms, and his neck. He kissed him on the mouth, and on a temple, and right under one ear, which was oddly erotic; worked at the bow of his neckcloth. Segundus removed the ugly black coat of Childermass, a bold gesture, and unlike him, which made him blush; together they discarded their once-good waistcoats, the patched-up shirts, Childermass’s old stained breeches. In silence, between the two of them, they shed their clothes layer after unfashionable layer, and when they were quite naked they looked at each other as if to say _we’re quite silly aren’t we?_ and then; _let’s get this over with_ , and then; _kiss me_.

 

When they fell on the bed, an awkward tumble of limbs, Segundus glanced at Childermass above him. Even in the warm, forgiving light of the candles, he was not much to look at, narrow-shouldered, bony and lanky, all angles and sharp edges. Segundus took in his jutting hipbones, and his scant chest (ridges of bones in which the shadows pooled, making him want to lick, to taste, to prod); he took account of Childermass’s broad rough hands, of his plain coarse-featured face.

Childermass was not a handsome man; yet, to Segundus, this had always been, still was, of no consequence. In his bed, lips parted and eyes open and staring, he was the most beautiful thing that Segundus had ever seen. And so he kissed his wrist, the only part of Childermass that he could easily reach, and licked tentatively at the salty skin there, which had Childermass take a shaky breath. Segundus smiled, risked a gentle bite; at this Childermass craned his head as if in disbelief, and kissed him rather fiercely on the mouth, which in turn made Segundus’s cock stir hopefully against Childermass’s stomach.

Childermass smiled very crookedly, and sank further down on his elbows. He kissed his neck, tongued at the line of his clavicle. Pressed his lips to his shoulder, his arm, the dip of his elbow. The inside of a thigh, the crook of a knee, and then; his hip, his spine, his belly.

With Childermass planting a glowing line of kisses down his chest, Segundus felt that, for the first time in his life, he was very aware of himself as a body, rather than a mind, or a soul, or indeed a heart. He acknowledged, to his astonishment, parts of himself that he had never taken account of before; for what use is the side of the ribcage, just under the dip of an armpit? Yet he found that, if kissed (or indeed licked, or nipped at with gentle teeth), all these places elicited the most subtle of pleasures, and thus they did have a use, and so did the body which normally felt so alien to him, so clumsy, and which was now expanded, magnified, almost beautiful and not quite profane.

Eventually, when Segundus was so painfully aroused that he felt that he should snap in two, Childermass looked at him with beautiful wicked uncertain eyes, and gently licked the tip of his cock. Segundus, who had been very still and very silent throughout all the kissing, whimpered at this; and when Childermass curled a careful hand around his balls he sighed, and moaned when Childermass licked a long line from the base of his cock to the slightly humid end of it, and finally, _finally_ , when Childermass applied his mouth to the job in earnest, Segundus groaned, and asked with a shaky voice: “Is this a sailor’s thing?” to which Childermass hummed with his warm wet mouth still on his cock, sending little jolts of pleasure down to the tip of Segundus’s toes, a sensation which was together very unlike and very like being tickled, the likeness mainly residing in that it made Segundus start to laugh, a joyful embarrassed self-effacing sound that made Childermass release his cock with a wet sound, and ask with a very breathy voice: “Are you laughing at me?”

To which Segundus only covered his face with his hands, giggling.

“Lovely. No, you’re lovely, don’t-” slurred Childermass, somewhat dazed, and as if in a daze he crawled up his body in a clumsy uncoordinated way, took hold of his wrists, pinned them on the sides of his head. “I want to- lovely,” finished Childermass, frowning puzzled and defeated.

Which did make Segundus to stop laughing at least.

“Preposterous,” he replied, albeit a bit weakly, and “I am a grown-up man.”

“Bloody lovely grown-up man,” growled Childermass, and bucked his hips just so, making their erections rut against each other, Segundus arch his back hopelessly, rocking his hips in sheer need. Both of them breathed now most raggedly- as if the air were stumbling on their teeth. When Childermass released his wrists to better clutch at his waist, Segundus carded a hand through his hair, let it slither down his side, on his lithe ribcage, and then between their bodies.

He gripped at Childermass’s cock. Loosely at first, which had Childermass’s eyes open very wide, and then more firmly; Childermass gasped to this, and winced as if in pain, except he was not in pain. That was miraculous, thought Segundus, so he stroked him tentatively at first, and then steadily, and then relentlessly. This extracted delightful sounds from what seemed Childermass’s very core, a perfect uninterrupted thread of heavy breaths and murmured curses and sharp intakes of breath all unfurling against Segundus’s neck- which in and of itself would have been absolutely magnificent, except that their closeness made every sound that Childermass made resonate in _Segundus’s_ very core, which was, quite frankly, dazzling (though not maybe as dazzling as Childermass’s long-lashed eyes, which he had never assumed were particularly long-lashed until he felt said lashes fluttering against his skin like the queerest, most unnerving of caresses, so unbelievably enticing that he feared, for a moment, that he should finish there and then, almost untouched, like a boy).

When Childermass took him in his hand, Segundus made a strangled breath, and this made Childermass’s breath hitch in turn, Childermass’s hand move somewhat faster on his cock, his gaze grow steadier and more dangerous. It was so distracting- this, the touch, the flashes of pleasure behind his eyes and through his tights, but most of all the sight of Childermass slightly coming apart; Segundus found that he had forgotten, or was not able anymore, to stroke him; that he was overwhelmed, cocooned by this heat and this love and this man, and that he simply could not move, could not do anything in fact except beg Childermass not to stop, _please_ , while by all means it was he who had, in fact, stopped stroking Childermass, which seemed to confuse and delight and frustrate the man. And so Childermass hesitated, and then, as if driven to desperation, pushed into Segundus’s loosely fisted hand, at first with a measure of caution, then vehemently, and then somewhat erratically.

“Forgive me, _oh_ ; forgive me,” he slurred, breathing damply on his neck, and then he spent himself on Segundus’s stomach.

“Oh!” Exclaimed Segundus, almost in shock.

He heard Childermass’s breath slowing. He felt his body slacken in his arms. Childermass’s mouth was on his neck, open and hot.

“Forgive me,” he said again.

Segundus patted his hair, trying to catch his breath. “It is alright,” he mumbled.

In fact, he did not know if it was alright. What with Childermass’s chest heaving and his come on his belly and the astonishing pleasure and the ineludible anxiety, and the insinuating reverberation, pulsating somewhere deep down him, of _I am too old for this I am too old to learn I will scare him away he had to do everything himself I will ruin this please don’t let him go away._ He found that the shock and the fear and the general sense of inadequacy, along with the fact that Childermass, in coming, had stopt stroking him, somehow had the best of him, and that he had, so to speak, lost concentration. He registered his cock softening with a sort of disappointment, gestured at it with his hand. “Only I- we should. Ehm.”

Childermass cocked a languid eyebrow at him from where his head rested on Segundus’s shoulder. He seemed confused. He looked lost. “What.”

“I suppose we could end it here,” provided Segundus, which in his opinion was quite generous (his chest sinking his hopes deflating _please don’t go. You can go you are allowed to go but it will kill me_ ).

“No.”

“I, well.”

“No.”

And then Childermass grabbed his chin, clutched at the soft skin of his throat, licked his lips open from above him, straddling him, and Segundus felt it again, the pull of want, as if he were standing on a very tall cliff and an endless enticing abyss was beckoning him, and before he could formulate a coherent thought he felt his body responding to Childermass, his hands clutch to his hair, his tongue tasting tongue and teeth and mouth, his cock growing erect once more. When Childermass started stroking him, he found that he had no control over his own being; that he was reduced to a thing of want, and that he desired only Childermass, and so he called his name, _John_ , and begged, _please_ , and then he was gone, gone, too far gone, and then- light flashed white behind his eyes, around him, hot, cold, hot, endless.

 

When he was able to think again, Segundus realized that in his paroxysm he had risen to an almost seated position, his arms wound tightly around Childermass’s shoulders, head buried in the crook of his neck.

He lifted his face slowly, embarrassed, and met Childermass’s naked luminous eyes.

“Can I-”

“Yes.”

Childermass kissed him slowly on the mouth, and then looked at him, and then he seemed to think better of it, because he kissed him again, close-mouthed and strangely chaste, as if he very much wanted to stop kissing him but could not help it, which was much the same way as Segundus felt. They kissed again, a brief brush of mouths, and then pressed their foreheads together, stayed like that for a while. Segundus felt as if his head were full of air, of unspun cotton, of all the things light and white and airy. He did not want to move, and he did not, for a while at least.

“I think we should clean ourselves up,” he proposed lazily, stirring despite himself, feeling the unpleasant pull of sperm drying on his stomach.

Childermass nodded, his gaze somewhat lost. Segundus had to sneak out of his arms, for he would not budge.

 

Upon getting up, he found that he lacked the most basic coordination. It seemed to take him ages to reach his dressing table, to fill his basin and wet a cloth so that he could dab, quite sloppily, at himself. On the bed, propped on his elbows, Childermass too looked rather disheveled.

“I should go,” he said without great purpose.

“I would have thought...” Segundus went to the bed, made to clean with the damp cloth what sperm was on Childermass’s chest. Childermass stopt his hand, fingers clutched around his wrist, and looked seriously in his eyes.

 “It is a very dangerous thing that we are doing.”

“You have already said that.”

“Well, then it bears repeating.”

“I am confident that between you and me we can find some sort of magical device, should somebody bother us.”

“I was not thinking only of that.”

And Childermass glanced at him with such openness that Segundus, although he could not grasp just yet what it was that Childermass feared, felt a measure of panick stirring inside him, making him shudder. He dropt the cloth, took hold of Childermass’s hand, weaving their finger together.

“I would not ask you to force yourself to- do anything you do not wish too. It’s just that everyone is sleeping, and we run no risks, I swear, Charles hardly comes to wake me in the morning anymore, and-“

“You do not wish to be left here alone.”

“Unless you wish to go.”

Childermass shook his head, the tiniest of movements. It made Segundus want to kiss him. He did, in fact, on his shoulder, right above the ugly scar there.

“Good.”

“Then come to bed.”

Segundus fell asleep to the light touch of Childermass’s fingers through his hair.

 

When he woke up it was to see, outside the window, the pitch-black darkness that signified either late night or early morning. He rolled on his stomach, still half-asleep, and saw a candle on the bedside table, a dark lean figure on his bed. He gasped in fear and surprize, for he was not used to ever have anyone in his bed, and it took him a while before he realized who the person was, and what had happened some hours previous. Childermass was reading quietly, naked under the covers.

“What are you doing?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“That is miss Redruth’s article. She sent it to me. Are you spying on my correspondence?”

“You left it on the bedside table. Besides, it is an excellent read.”

“You should sleep.”

“I still have one paragraph.”

Groggy from sleep, Segundus reached blindly in the general direction of Childermass, snatched away the sheets of paper, put them on the bedside table. He tugged at Childermass’s legs until he was well under the covers, pinned his body under his own weight.

“Sleep.”

He heard John’s rumble of a laugh against his chest. He kissed his mouth. They fell asleep.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hard! It was my first smut! I hope it's not too awkward! Feedback is always welcome but in this case is vital.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Segundus muses.

The days were getting shorter.

Under the setting sun, in the soft five o’ clock light, the countryside looked staggeringly beautiful, orange-leaved and brown-earthed under a sky of piercing blue.

The early evening was calm, safe for a light wind which carried a distant songbird in its wake. On evenings such as this it seemed to Segundus, who felt the ring of a promise in his heart, as if all England were a big ancient animal, taking a deep breath that would only be released by the green exhale of Spring.

The window was barely open, letting a pleasant cold through. Hair mussed, content after a long day of work, Segundus sat on the windowsill as if in waiting, a book of poems in his hands, as he had done on a beautiful morning in September.[1]

So much had changed since then!

Yet, if he reflected upon it, Segundus felt very much the same person as before, as plain and as neat as he had ever been, with his flowers and his novels and his threadbare clothes. The difference lied in the fact that he now saw himself not only through his own eyes, but through those of Childermass as well; he could thus see that for all of his plainness, and for all of his sickening neatness, he was after all a person worthy of affection, and worthy of _closeness_ , and worthy as well (this he would not have dared hoping) of being kissed in an unmade bed at sunrise, the early light spilling through the shades, by a man with a soft smile, with eyes bright and beautiful brown, and hair glinting golden in the sun.

A month had passed since Childermass and Segundus had parted, and yet what a world of difference there was between Segundus’s different states of _aloneness_ , for want of a better word, these two _alonnesses_ being the one before Childermass and the one after him, that is after Childermass had kissed him, and after Segundus had invited him to his room, and after Childermass has spread him on the bed with gentle hands and tore him apart so thoroughly that Segundus had thought that nothing more would remain of him (except of course that he had remained very much whole, and largely unchanged, as he had just assessed).

But there. Between his previous state and the new one was as much difference as there was between being lonely and being alone, which was, in his humble opinion, a world of it.

And yet!

In the weeks that Childermass and he had been separated, Segundus had found that being in love, that is being reciprocated in his love (not that there had been a declaration, but with what had happened, and not just that, but _the way_ it had happened!, trembling, hesitant and naked, queer and unfamiliar, almost like being back somewhere you had longed to be..!); that is, this new state he found himself in (although he was very much the same person as before!) was full of astonishing delights,[2] but also ridden with novel anxieties.

One such anxiety was his almost constant fear for Childermass. Whereas before he had seen him as some sort of invulnerable creature, dashing, brave and nearly invincible like a character from a novel, he now worried that some horrible faith should befall him. As for that horrible faith, Segundus did not know what it could be. Death, he supposed- something as commonplace as falling off Brewer could kill Childermass easily, and he not as young as he once was. Or Childermass, less gruesomely, could change his mind again, as he had done before, and Segundus would find himself lonely again, this time with the knowledge, to torture him, of what Childermass’s skin felt like under his fingers, or of the sounds he made- no, it was too painful to think of it.

The truth was that now that John Segundus had obtained what he most desired, he feared that it should be taken from him whilst only half-accomplished; and he wanted more of it. He wanted many nights spent together, and some lazy mornings; he wanted days and months and years. He wanted to see Childermass under the sun in Spring, or in his shirtsleeves among the fields in Summer, or again with snow on the brim of his hat— only this time Segundus would be allowed to dust the snow away from it, and to gently touch Childermass’s sweet sagging face, and maybe to plant a kiss on his raspy cheek.

But it was not only that.

It was that, under the Childermass that Segundus had constructed for himself in their years of acquaintance, he had seen the glimpse of another Childermass, which he suspected very much to be the true one; and he had seen that this man was, in many ways, very easy to shatter, and that Segundus held a power over him which he had not quite realized before, and which he could not quite grasp still, and that he might well be the one to shatter him; not voluntarily, and not soon, for he could not quite fathom it now, but once, and carelessly, and permanently.

Had John Segundus any reason for this fear? Of course not. And yet there it was, the vulnerability of Childermass, which he was scared of and half in love with, that made him think that he should proceed very carefully from now on, lest he should ruin this man, or change him. How his hands had trembled when he had first undressed Segundus! How his smile had faltered the morning after!

This new side to Childermass was plain in the letters that he had sent Segundus _after_.

There was of course nothing in them that was extravagant, or outside the realm of good form; nothing, in short, that could incriminate two men, should somebody enquire. And yet, for a man as Segundus was, used to perusing Childermass’s correspondence, how different they were from the ones he had sent before!

Where those were restrained, full of warm but generic courtesy, the letters that Childermass had written afterwards had a certain air of careful fear, and at times they were sweetly worried. Had Segundus enough fire in his earth? For the nights had grown cold, Childermass had enquired once. Or again: is not Mr Segundus’s coat too light for the Autumn? Did he not wish Childermass to order a new one for him from his tailor in London? Nothing showy, of course, but- maybe he would like it in green?

Segundus was not used to this. To be fretted upon, yes, he had gotten used to, in his years of friendship with Mr Honeyfoot, in his patronage by Mrs Lennox, and even before, of course, he had been lucky to be surrounded by the cares of his friends, few as they had been. The peculiar brand of affection that he perceived from Childermass, however, was different, and it astonished and embarrassed him, for he had not deemed the man capable of such warmth, and he had been wrong in his assumptions!

It made his heart clench in a sensation not unlike guilt, almost like a fear that someone should take Childermass away from him.

 

 

The week after, on a Wednesday morning, Childermass finally came back to Starecross.

The sun was shining, flooding the classroom with warmth. From the window next to the blackboard Segundus could see the light filtering gently through the canopy of leaves in the apple orchard, projecting tremulous shades on the earth, making him think of sweet childhood Autumns.

Being already quite distracted as it were, he grew more distracted when he spotted two dark figures under the trees, a single grey cloud moving briskly towards them, and even more so when he felt the distinct tug of magic at his heart. At first it was a magic that could only be Martha’s, fragrant of biscuits and fresh as an apple, warm like a Sunday morning; almost immediately, however, Segundus perceived another magic, darker and more profound, green and violet like the moor; this was how he knew that Childermass was there.

Maybe it was the enthusiasm at knowing that Childermass was at Starecross, maybe it was the power of his magic: Segundus ended up being _utmostly_ distracted, so much in fact that he had to dismiss the class earlier for he had grown quite sick, his writing on the blackboard shaky and much unlike his normal, if slightly round, one.

With the class gone, he rushed down the staircase so fast that he almost made Jacob Waite fall, and had to ensure that the child was well while all the time praying that Childermass was still there, and not gone off to the village on God knows what errands or proven to be a fancy of his imagination.

He ran to the kitchen, whence the fastest way to the orchard departed, and tried not to be sidetracked by the chatter of the cook, Mrs Potter, or by her proffering of a slice of earthy bread just out of the oven or a cup of tea with a dollop of thick cream just as he liked it, which he ended up accepting (but only so that he could free himself!) taking it with him on the dusty path to the orchard.

Outside at least, the light of the sun almost blinded Segundus, lighting stars behind his closed eyes. He shielded his eyes with a hand, trembling slightly, for the day, although bright, was cold, and there: under a tree not far from where he stood he spotted Childermass, very much not a figment of his imagination, and the small shapely figure of Martha next to him, who laughed her comforting laugh echoed by the gruff sound of an amused Childermass. He made to reach them, but he had not yet made two steps that someone approached him.

“Well that’s a very pretty scullery maid.”

Segundus jumped, a hand comically splayed on his chest. Beside him was Vinculus, who must have sneaked upon him on his leaving the kitchen, and who took possession of his cream tea with little ceremony.

Feigning indignation, Segundus straightened his back.

“She is not a scullery maid anymore!”

“Thought you had no money to hire more people.”

“You know a great deal of things, don’t you?”

“Just about enough. You got a new patron?”

Segundus stopt, glanced at three more dark clouds ominously rolling towards Childermass and Martha. He sighed.

“It was Childermass who offered to pay. He said that it would have been a waste not to allow Miss Alridge more time to practice her magic, and I agreed. It is not as if everyone knows that she is a magician just yet, but-” He let his voice trail away, shook his shoulders a little bit.

“She is a fine one, uh?”

They walked towards them.

In the orchard Martha exclaimed something, her voice crystalline with delight, and Childermass smiled at her, gently holding her wrist to redirect her aim. Even from the distance the movements of his hands seemed very delicate, as if he were a bit self-conscious of how big they were against the small brown ones of Martha.

Vinculus coughed. “Are you listening to me?”

“Uh? No. Sorry, I was distracted.”

“A fine one!” Repeated the man, nodding towards the girl with a knowing smile.

“She is too young for you.”

“I meant as a magician.”

“Oh. Oh yes. Yes she is.”

“And what about the new one?”

“You mean the scullery maid? Does not care a whit about magic, I’m afraid, but she loves to peel potatoes.”

“No, I meant her...” Vinculus held his hands in front of him, vaguely gesturing at his chest.

“Vinculus!”

Thence on, they walked in silence, Segundus too embarrassed to talk, Vinculus too intent on sipping his tea. When they had almost reached the gentle slope on which the tree was, Segundus’s heart started churning and stirring in his throat in anticipation; however, he could not reach Childermass as quick as he wanted, for Vinculus held out his arm and pulled him slightly aside.

“He’s been very restless,” he whispered, a hand cupped to the side of his mouth.

“Who, Childermass?” Segundus asked. He wondered if he said the name in a different way than the other names. He wondered if it revealed something. It tasted sweet on his tongue, like a secret or a spell.

“Aye. Reading is going very slow.”

“Well, we still do not have the stone.”

“Do readers need stones, I ask?”

“Do they not?” Segundus asked, and then snapped, impatient: “Are you being deliberately  quizzical?”

“ _Am_ I being delibe-”

“I do not know.”

“Neither do I, John Segundus,” declared Vinculus with an air of finality. But I’ll tell you this: there is no worst blind man that the one who does not want to see.” Having said this he placed the empty teacup in Segundus’s hand with an air of finality, and ran off to the kitchen as fast as his arthritic legs would allow him. Watching him go, Segundus pondered for a moment whether he should follow him, ask what he had meant by that. He resolved against it with a shrug. Besides, Childermass was very close now, and he had noticed Segundus, and he had stopt smiling at Martha. He looked at him with fixed dark eyes, while the clouds above his head dispersed; as he got up the sunshine glinted upon his coarse features to make them almost beautiful.

“Hello!” Said Segundus; it came out all choked, comically high in pitch. He raised his hand in a jerky salute, trying to tip off a hat he was not wearing. Martha beamed, waving her hands and returning his greeting, her magic rushing to him in waves as it dispersed. When she made to get up, Childermass helped her in his gentle clumsy way, not looking at Segundus, but furtively glancing in his direction with an air that could only be described as deep agony.

When Segundus finally reached them he bowed his head; it felt awkward and stiff, as if all his bones had been glued together. “I have seen the clouds and thought to reach you,” he said, which was a lie, and: “That was good weather magic, Martha,” which was not. As he said this he chose to ignore Childermass, focusing all of his attention on his maid instead. He felt the shyness that people who talk with great familiarity in letters feel when it is the moment to meet in person, and they find themselves completely unable to conduct a conversation with the same ease. But it was also that he feared, should he lock eyes with Childermass, that he should falter a spell too much, look at him in such a way that they should be ruined. He felt his head swimming with love and worry.

Luckily, there was Martha.

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled. “Although Mr Childermass helped me a great deal. Had it been for me, it would have hailed instead of raining.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Segundus, with a smile maybe a shade more restrained that his usual. As Childermass had been mentioned in the conversation, he now had no choice but to risk a look at him, who had been smiling at Martha, and who stopped smiling when their eyes met, although his eyes remained warm.

Segundus felt himself blushing, his whole being shudder internally; how queer it was, that someone should have seen so much, known so much of a person, and yet being so embarrassed at the moment of meeting them again. “Mr Childermass,” he murmured. “We were not expecting you so soon.”

Childermass looked at him with his undecipherable look. He appeared tired, but then, he mostly appeared weary anyway. His coat was different, new, even though he had ruined it by sitting on the grass; his hair was clean and neatly tied back, as if he had taken great pains to look at his best (although maybe, reflected Segundus, it was just that owning an enterprise now required him to look the part).

“I thought that I should precede the Lord and Lady Opie, to see if anything was amiss. I presumed that you would not object to hosting me,” said Childermass, and tipping his head to the side he conceded to himself, or indeed to Segundus, a small smile, and quite knowing, which seemed to say _we both share a secret_ , and which made Segundus’s mouth twitch in turn, his heart at peace.

“I do not object. But when did you arrive? You would have done well to give me a warning, so that I could have had your room prepared, sir.”

“We reached one hour ago. Do not fret, Mr Segundus; your landlady has already given dispositions to prepare our usual rooms.”

“And warned Emma[3] that she should hide from Vinculus,” smiled Martha.

“As you can see your household is very efficient in all respects, Mr Segundus.”

“Not so much I’m afraid. Should not my maid be preparing Mr Childermass’s  room, instead of frolicking?”

“We were not frolicking, Mr Segundus. We were studying and you interrupted us,” smiled Childermass, crossing his arms.

“Well, I-”

“I should really go, Mr Childermass,” said Martha, conciliatorily placing a hand on his arm. Her face was all set in the effort of looking contrite, which she was not doing very well. She looked very much amused and very young. “Mrs Potter has already called for me twice.”

“Off you go, then.”

“Maybe you can reprise your study after dinner is ready,” said Segundus, and immediately regretted it as it was against his best interest, his best interest being laying in bed with Childermass for twenty-four hours.

“...If Mr Childermass permits it?”

“I permit it. I will be in the library. Find me there when you are finished.”

“I will. And thank you, sir, for our lesson.”

 

 

When the white-clad figure of Martha had ran all the way down the slope and reached the kitchen, Segundus finally dared move his eyes to Childermass again.

“Are you trying to steal my maid away, Mr Childermass?”

“Truly it was she came to me, in the stable. She said that she had troubles with her rain and that she had one hour free. I had one hour free too, before you finished teaching your class, and so I accepted.”

“She is a resourceful girl, our Martha.”

“That she is.”

“And talented.”

“She also has a very good teacher.”

Segundus smiled, stretching his arm just enough to brush at Childermass’s wet shoulder, at the good felt of his new coat. Childermass’s breath hitched.

“I have another class before lunch. I should be going.”

“I shall be waiting, then.”

Segundus nodded his head, made to go with a slight bow, no less stiff than his first, but maybe more easy. Just as he turned his back to Childermass, however, he felt the man’s hand around his wrist, pulling him so that he had to turn back.

“John- I mean Mr John Childermass, _oh_ , I mean, Mr Childermass?” He mumbled, quite flustered, which had Childermass raise his eyebrows in mock puzzlement, Segundus’s wrist still in his (warm, calloused, slightly cracked) hand. Segundus feared that Childermass should kiss him, and then _wished_ that Childermass should kiss him, and then saw that Childermass was reaching for something inside his pocket, so maybe no kisses were to be had after all.

“Before I forget.” He produced a slim volume, slightly battered from a long travel but otherwise very new in appearance, which was titled, in bold but elegant characters,

 

 _Metamorphoseon_ , volume 1

to be continued quarterly

\---

London:

printed by J. Childermass

\---

Price six shillings.

 

“Here it is, then.” Segundus reached for the volume, leafed through the pages. His article. The articles of the Lady Opie and Miss Redruth, written in their own name (albeit only the initials). He smiled, then thumbed at the spine, sniffed at the paper. “It is very good paper, too. And the ink does not come off on your fingers.”

Childermass laughed, only then leaving Segundus’s wrist. “Have you some interest in typography?”

“Only in typographers,” replied Segundus, bold and blushing.

Childermass chuckled, a bit as if in fondness. “You should go to your students now.”

“Yes. Yes I will. I will see you later, Mr Childermass?”

“Aye. See you later, John.”

 

The Autumn was approaching its end, and soon it would be winter. Segundus felt, in the air and in his heart, the warmth of new beginnings.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] In truth, on the morning of the seventh of September, which was the day Segundus was reminiscing about, it had been cold and windy and rainy.

[2] For instance, on the morning that he had left, Childermass had come to his room to say goodbye. Without even taking off his gloves he had lifted up the nightshirt of a still half-asleep Segundus, and with his mouth on his cock brought him to such a state of being  as Segundus  would never had dreamt possible, let alone achievable, or, for that matter, entirely lawful.

[3] Emma Smith (1803-1857) worked as a scullery maid, and then as a maid, at the Starecross Academy of Magic for twenty years, after which she continued working there as a cook for ten years. She never became a magician, but her cooking abilities came to be much appreciated in the nearby villages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA you thought it was finished? There's another chapter coming. I am not ready to abandon this yet!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which cocks are discussed.

The bright October sun had set. The moon outside the window was low upon the orchard, and tinged the leaves with silver. The hour was ten o’ clock, and in Starecross Hall everything was silent. Or rather, nothing was truly silent; for everything moved, and rustled, and whispered of the new season. But things had a softness to them, almost a will not to disturb the people sleeping in the house, and even if the leaves stirred in the trees and the mice scuttled in the walls, were a man to pay attention he could, from his very small room in a secluded corner of the house, hear all that passed through it (that is, very little).

John Segundus was in his bed, and, incapable to sleep and incapable to read, he waited. For what he waited he did not know, but he felt that something should happen, and as he was usually right when he had this sort of feeling, he had decided to wait in bed for the Thing that was Supposed to Happen to happen. The fact was that John Childermass was in the house, and so John Segundus rather hoped that the Thing that was Supposed to Happen would involve John Childermass, and that the Thing that was Supposed to Happen would involve kissing John Childermass, as that had still not happened since he had came to Starecross and Segundus was growing rather impatient about it.

After several more minutes of waiting, Segundus grew weary of it. He started wondering whether the Thing that was Supposed to Happen were not rather the Thing that He was supposed to Make Happen, and he started to consider leaving his bed and his room to take the chance of knocking of John Childermass’s door, when he heard, in the silence of the house, a sound of steps down the corridor. Shuffling, non-rhythmical and yet light, there was no doubt as to whom the steps belonged; and despite having suspected that Something like this would Happen, Segundus felt his heart jump with joy, and then beat fast with unrepressible emotion. He found, as the steps came nearer to his room, that he could not keep to his bed. And so he tossed the counterpane on the side and he pried open the drapes of his four-poster bed; he jumped on his feet and off he went, barefoot and careful, to open the door.

On the other side of it he found, as he had expected, John Childermass, with his hand closed in a fist to knock on the door, and although this was exactly the Thing that Segundus had Wished would Happen, he jumped a little bit in surprise.

“Mr Childermass.”

Childermass wore a crisp white nightshirt; his hair was untied, even more unruly than usual, and his eyes were softly red-rimmed as if he had been about to fall asleep and then thought better of it. He was, Segundus thought, utterly charming.

“May I come in?” Asked Childermass, furtively looking behind his shoulder. Segundus opened the door a breath, moved an inch, and just like that he had him in his room again. He closed the door behind him, and Childermass, uncharacteristically sheepish, said: “I am sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night.”

 “You are wearing a nightshirt.”

Even in the faint light of the moon Segundus saw Childermass smiling an askew smile, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Had you imagined me sleeping in the nude, Mr Segundus?”

Segundus felt the heat of embarrassment rush through him, from the back of his neck to the tips of his tingling bare feet. “Yes,” he whispered before even noticing, and then: “No!” He exclaimed, and then, “Oh but this is all wrong,” all the which Childermass punctuated with an amused arching of his eyebrows and a small tightening of his lips, as if to suppress a laugh. “What- I mean, why-” but he lost track; had he ever heard Childermass laughing, as in- properly laughing, Segundus wondered; he should endeavour to hear the sound, for he could not remember it.

Taking advantage of the pause Childermass moved towards him, soon looming over him- he seemed always to loom over Segundus even though all in all he was not that much taller or bigger than him; not however much more than any other person- and anyway Segundus should be used to be smaller than pretty much everyone, and yet- but he found the course of his thoughts interrupted again when Childermass lifted his hands and made to touch him, and Segundus thought, for a second, that maybe he would kiss him now, but Childermass did not. Instead he took, very gently, and very seriously, Segundus’s hands in his, and then he pulled him tightly to himself, burying his face in the crook of his neck, almost seeking comfort. Was Childermass a man to seek comfort anywhere? Segundus asked himself; was this another case of Childermass-as-he-was being different from Childermass-as-he-imagined him? He circled Childermass’s shoulders with his arms, surprised at finding them so thin, reveling in the feeling of Childermass’s steady breath on his neck.

“May I sleep here?” Asked Childermass at length, mouth pressed behind his ear.

Segundus shuddered.

“If you’ll have me, that is,” added Childermass, moving away from Segundus an inch so that he could look, questioningly, into his eyes.

“I would have you,” said Segundus, voice quite unsteady. “I would have you very much,” he said more steadily, and then he said no more, because Childermass made a sound almost like a groan and kissed him almost in desperation, fingers in Segundus’s hair, clutching at him not without a certain frantic possessiveness that made Segundus dizzy, unsteady on his feet, light-headed. When they separated their chests were heaving, Segundus’s arms were around Childermass’s midriff and his nightshirt sat all askew, slouching on his shoulder.

“We should go to bed,” he said, bending his head as if under a blow when he realized his boldness. Childermass made a sharp sucking sound, lifted his head with firm hands, kissed him again in a vehement forward manner.

It was a while before they moved again. At last they separated, and Segundus led Childermass to bed; there they settled down, facing each other.

Segundus slithered his arm under his pillow, and then under Childermass’s pillow, so that he could touch his neck, bury his hand into long his brown hair. Childermass placed his hand, pleasantly warm, on the dip of Segundus’s side. They remained in comfortable silence for a while, Segundus occasionally moving his hand to Childermass’s brow or his cheek or his mouth, which he caressed with his fingertips which, in turn, Childermass kissed lightly.

“You should not have taught Martha that silencing spell.[1] Now she will steal Mrs Potter’s biscuits all the time!”

“Mrs Potter always keeps them for herself. Martha shares them with the other maids. It is only fair, Mr Segundus.”

“John.”

“Mh?”

“I meant me-John. You can- if you want to, that is. When we are between ourselves.”

“Aye. And you shall do the same.”

“I am sure that it will give rise to much confusion.”

“Let it be so,” sniggered Childermass, and moved closer to Segundus under the quilt, so that their legs were comfortably intertwined. Segundus let out a sigh of contentedness and latched his arms around Childermass’s neck, drawing their foreheads together.

“Anyway, it is the principle of the thing that I am against.”

“Are we talking about the biscuits again?”

“Yes. It is that magic gives one an unfair advantage, and it should not be used lightly, I think.”

“So does being the cook and not the maid.”

“I suppose so.”

“And even more so does it being white-skinned and not black-skinned.”

“I suppose-”

“There are not many advantages Martha can claim in her life, and do not we want her to advance in life? Let her have this, Mr Segundus. Let her have all she can get.”

Segundus huffed, defeated and proud- of Childermass for his sense of justice, of Martha for her cleverness. “I am sorry, Mr Childermass. I see that you have given more thought to the matter than me.”

“John.”

“Mh?”

“I meant me-John.”

“Oh yes. John,” said Segundus. He felt himself beaming despite having been chastised, and with his hand searched Childermass’s hand under the pillow. “I like-” he ventured, feeling that he lacked the courage to go on. But on he went anyway. “I like your hair like this.”

“Clean?”

“Untied!”

Childermass chuckled; a small victory, at last! He scooted closer to Segundus and gazed at him for a long time, fingers light against his cheekbone, with an expression suddenly serious. Segundus kissed his mouth;  it was meant to be a brush of lips only, before going back to their discussion, but as these things go Childermass trailed after him after Segundus pulled out, caught his mouth into a kiss and Segundus in his arms. Before long Segundus was biting at Childermass’s lower lip very gently, which was delightful, and then at his tongue, which was unprecedented, and then Childermass drew a sharp breath, rocking his hips against Segundus’s thigh.

“You know,” said Segundus with his nose against Childermass’s. He kissed his cheek, arms circling his hips, drawing him closer.

“What,” asked Childermass, a knee between Segundus’s legs.

“They used to hold cockfights in this room.”

At this Childermass stopt kissing his neck, as he had been doing previously, and gazed at him. At first with a puzzled look, and then with lips drawn-together, and then with laughter in his eyes. It was not long before the man exploded in a proper fit of giggles, which should have given pause to Segundus lest someone should hear them, but did not; on the contrary, he basked in it like a thirsty man drinking water for the first time, and when Childermass stopt laughing he took his face in his hands and kissed his mouth a little bit breathlessly.

A small while later, when Childermass was on top of Segundus, and Segundus was on his back with his nightshirt hiked up and Childermass’s erect cock against his, he continued: “The man who owned this house was very fond of cocks.”

“As am I,” grinned Childermass, who indeed had just seconds before been looking with a certain fascination at their cocks grinding against each other.

“Aren’t you curious?” Asked Segundus, trying to mimick contempt. In truth, he thought his happiness shewed plain on his face, for he was indeed very happy.

“Pray continue.”

“He was very fond of them, _oh please, stop giggling!_ , and when he fell sick he ordered that the cocks should be brought to his room, _I say, John!_ , brought to his room and be made to fight.”

Childermass had the decency to just snort in mirth this time, and, his face warm against Segundus’s neck, busied himself with striking their cocks together with short brisk movements of his hand, which had Segundus lose the thread of his story.

 

Later, Segundus lay naked on the bed. His nightshirt had been removed and discarded on the floor, Pale’s Silence and Discretion had been cast on him and Childermass,[2] and Segundus’s head had been coaxed to be held high with gentle kissing and the occasional bite, so that his neck was now exposed to Childermass’s gentle sucking. Segundus felt that the sort of lazy ache that comes with physical elation, and yet he found again the thread of his story, so that even if his voice was shaking and even if he had a hand on the delightful slope of Childermass’s behind, he found himself announcing: “So the man’s conditions worsened.”

“That is terrible,” hummed Childermass without overmuch emotion. He was at the moment biting at Segundus’s clavicle, his attention soon to be transferred on Segundus’s pectoral, whence he licked a trail to Segundus’s nipple, which he prodded with the tip of his tongue.

Segundus moaned. Childermass had stopt stroking their cocks in his eagerness to kiss him, and so he put a hand to himself, in a light touch, just to make the work of Childermass’s tongue bearable, for he was most excited. This had the unexpected effect to make Childermass curse very ungentlemanly, and kiss Segundus on the mouth again very forcefully, a gesture which, in spite of there having been many places of his that Childermass had kissed since the start of their liaison, still pleasured Segundus to the utmost, for he felt closer to Childermass when they were kissing on the mouth, and almost claimed by him, which was nonsense of course but delightful nonsense as it were.

“Should I-” Asked Segundus when they separated, flustered and self-conscious. He had not removed the hand from his own crotch during the kiss, and indeed he found now that, moved forth by the passion of the kiss, he had almost unconsciously started stroking himself in earnest. “Should I stop,” he murmured, as he realized how Childermass looked at him almost transfixed.

“Not even for a second,” said Childermass most seriously, and to further demonstrate the seriousness of his intentions he placed his hand on Segundus’s hand, intertwining his fingers to his not as to guide the rhythm but as to follow it whilst Segundus stroked himself.

Segundus found himself closing his eyes; it had become impossible for him to keep them open, blinded as he was by pleasure and affection, with Childermass gazing at him with the crookedest, sweetest of smiles- he did, however, stop, and timely, when he felt dangerously on the brink of completion. The truth was that he did not wish for their endeavour to be thus finished, and he felt that with Childermass’s hand on his and the possibility to set his own pace he would soon be, inevitably, finished. He stilled his hand, he gazed at Childermass, who looked flushed and not-quite-beautiful in that heartrending way of his- whose cock was erect against his stomach, quite dark in colour with the tip slightly dewy. Segundus felt his mouth watering, which was unseemly and maddening, and so he threw his arms around Childermass and laid him down on the bed, quite matter-of-factly for a person as aroused as he was.

“When he could not move anymore,” he said shakily, making Childermass under him roll his eyes, “the old owner ordered for a mirror to be brought here, so that he could look at the cocks fighting without raising his head from his pillow.” His story concluded, Segundus smiled smugly, taking Childermass’s wrists in his hands as he rocked himself astride him.

“And what is the moral of this story?” Asked Childermass hoarsely, turning his head to take Segundus’s thumb between his teeth.

“The moral, Mr Childermass-”

“John.”

“Mh?”

They looked at each other and laughed, and Segundus left Childermass’s wrists to grip at his waist and he kissed his chest and his stomach, and then he dipped his head down to nuzzle the hair at the base of his cock, which was pleasantly musky. “There is no moral. But I read about it one week ago, and how I laughed!” He said, pressing wet kisses on the length of Childermass’s cock, lapping at it with the flat of his tongue. At that Childermass shuddered, made a small unfocused noise. “I thought about you, and the face you would make,” said Segundus, after having licked experimentally the wetness at the tip of Childermass’s cock. “I hoped that it would divert you. I hoped- Mmh.” he trailed away there, urged on by the strange, irrepressible desire to take Childermass’s cock in his mouth, which he did, finding himself startled by the texture of it, hard and yet soft, by the coppery smell, by the tangy but not displeasing taste. Childermass made a sound, then, almost of anguish.

“Should I stop,” asked Segundus, almost teasingly. He had never been teasing in his life before, but he felt that he was allowed to, having had his mouth full of Childermass’s cock until a mere instant before. Childermass moaned then, and shook his head very minutely, almost vulnerably, at which Segundus pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh to keep himself from kissing his mouth, which would have distracted him from the task at hand.

He felt desire like molten gold in his chest, and he felt Pale’s silencing spell, which they had cast on one another, fill him with a languid buzzing feeling; he felt the telluric undercurrent of Childermass’s strong magic and he felt his own lighter, paler one; and then he felt elation, and gratitude, and love, above all, thrumming in his ears.

 

* * *

 

[1] The silencing spell Mr Segundus was talking about was Pale’s Spell of Silence and Discretion, which lets the magician who casts it move about without raising any sounds. The spell was at the center of a scandal in 1872, when it was believed that Dame Eugenia Pemberton (1810-1890) used it to conduct an affair with a coachman ten years her younger.

[2] One magician had cast the spell on the other, even though it is perfectly possible, and indeed more efficient, to cast the spell on oneself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY I'M NOT FINISHED YET.
> 
> The cockfighting story is real! I mean. With some fidgeting. It's a thing that really happened in the hall of the village Susanna loosely based Starecross on. I've read about it in [this interview](https://www.drake.org.uk/interviews/susanna-clarke-author-of-jonathan-strange-mr-norrell/). Susanna said she would have liked to work it in the book, so obviously I worked it in porn. SORRY SUSANNA.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a spell gets muddled up.

John Segundus was hardly an expert on love.

Not that he had ever shunned it- he was not that kind of man, but he had simply, for most of his life, had other things to worry about. Things like magic, for example, or abject poverty, had preoccupied him further more urgently during the years of his youth, and with them the pressing matters of how to procure books of magic, or how to procure a roof for the night.

Yet Segundus was not a heartless automaton. He had, in his life, experienced the pangs of love; he had sometimes been loved. He had however, until the present moment, never experienced a reciprocal love- never, that is, experienced the correspondence of feelings that he now had with Childermass. Thus the experience was still novel for him, and in its novelty John Segundus could not help to compare the business of love[1] to the one equally electrifying thing of which he had recent experience, that is of magic. Of course the former was utterly illegal while the latter, at least recently, and at least usually, was not. But both were things which had a powerful hold upon Segundus; both were things which demanded his utmost attention, and ultimately, both were things which had to do with John Childermass; which made him, in a way, the centre of Segundus’s thoughts. It should then be regarded with no surprize that the two things should merge from time to time in Segundus’s mind (or; in his heart). How many times had it happened, even before the current unfolding of events, that Segundus, thinking of how to solve a matter of magic, had longed for Childermass’s warm, steadying presence beside him? How many times had it happened that he had toiled and huffed and mulled over a spell, only for the secret of it to be revealed by a well-timed letter? And how many times had the thoughts of Childermass the magician, the problem-solver, the man of genius, mutated into thoughts of Childermass that were entirely of another order, more affectionate and warmer, strange and familiar at the time as if coming from a dark secluded place of the heart? And so, of course, it was no wonder that even in the very same act of lovemaking these two things, Childermass and magic, should merge together; that they should bind Segundus’s heart with power lines that he felt not to fully understand yet.

He heard Childermass calling his name, somewhat distantly. This at first distracted him from the task at hand (the task being the somewhat shameful one of practising on Childermass an act of _fellatio_ ), so that he lost, for a spell, the steady pace that he had acquired. At the same time Childermass’s voice, that he could hear like a rumble somewhere above his head, strangely enticed him further in his act, so much, in fact, that he did not want to abandon it, and that in order to convince him to do so Childermass had to place a gentle hand on his head, to mutter “John,” resolutely but softly, so gently that Segundus had to comply, unwilling and yet not the man to disregard kindness, with a final lick on the rim of Childermass’s cock.

“We have a problem,” declared Childermass as soon as Segundus had clambered up his body, braced himself with his arm about Childermass’s shoulders, and kissed him fully on the mouth. This declaration Segundus found unusual; he also found unusual the fact that Childermass was still whispering even when, for a lack of a more eloquent explanation, he had the complexion of a man who was not whispering at all, visible in a certain set of his mouth, a certain feeling to the way in which he had uttered the sentence. Although his words had the intensity of a whisper, to Segundus they did not feel like a whisper at all, but instead as if they were muffled, which was impossible of course. And yet, was it, when magic was all around them?

“You are not whispering at all,” he said to Childermass.

“I am not.”

“Yet I hear a whisper! How do I sound to you?”

“Like from the other side of a wall.”

“Oh John, have we muddled up the spell?”

“So it would seem.”

“I am afraid… I think- the spell will shortly impede our communications.”

Childermass nodded. He seemed however relatively unconcerned, what with his hand around Segundus’s cock. His gaze, if anything, seemed very intent upon Segundus’s; which was _something_. The effects of the spell they had cast on each other were most peculiar: he felt that his voice was as loud as usual, that is not very loud, but tolerably discernible; when Childermass replied, however (with a laconic _aye_ nonetheless), he felt that Childermass’s voice was already thinning, like a well-worn coat above his shoulders.

“It is already working in that direction, I think,” said Segundus, trying to concentrate Childermass’s attention on the problem at hand (this was not done, to be fair, with great enthusiasm). “Have we muddled up this night as well, you reckon?” He finally added, which was, if he were at all to be honest, his most pressing concern; oh, had there been a way to subdue, along with the tone of his voice, the furious blushing which had overtaken him! This seemed to be after all the right question; Childermass smiled really slowly and really slyly, bringing a hand to Segundus’s forehead to brush his hair from his eyes.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “Unless it troubles you?”

“No.”

“We could lift the spell altogether and recast it.”

Segundus paused. He perused. He shook his head. “I am-” he ventured, his cheek hot where it touched Childermass’s shoulder, his hips minutely rocking against Childermass’s hipbone. “It is, indeed, quite.” There he stopt; he could not find it in himself to say that it was elating, which was, however, how it felt. He let a small laugh out, not entirely self-deprecating and almost joyous, which Childermass echoed.

“Aye.”

“We shall then-”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Childermass, which sounded to Segundus’s ear like the feeblest of whispers, the spell working its way between them all the more rapidly the more time it passed.

“It is fascinating,” ventured Segundus; he could see Childermass already straining so that he could listen to him, which was fascinating too, although in a different way- a way which entailed less the fascination for magic and more that for a head bent just so, for a neck softly craned so that its sinews appeared in relief, so that there was no choice for Segundus but to bite at it, the pasty salty flavour of Childermass’s skin calling to him as it was wont to do. That hunger, Segundus thought on a whim, was in a way fascinating as well. He said as much.

“Are you making me a-” Begun Childermass. The rest of the phrase was undiscernible, coated in honey-thick wax-warm magic; but he was smiling.

“I beg your pardon?”

“An object of study?”

“Possibly. Oh, but we need to talk of the consequences- that is who would have thought that casting the spell on each other would make us- oh but you cannot hear me, John, is that right?”

This last interjection of Segundus had the effect of making Childermass laugh. This Segundus could not hear, yet he saw the laugh, crinkling around Childermass’s eyes, glinting in his mouth with a flash of teeth. Childermass took Segundus’s head in his hands, kissed him.

 

Thence, their lovemaking had to proceed by trial and error; which made this lovemaking of them quite different from all their precedent acts, but also, in a way, strikingly similar to them- for it not the business of lovemaking, at all times and under all circumstances, a matter of trial and error?

Segundus found that the impossibility of being heard and of hearing his companion required adjustments. He found for example that, upon raising his head to better see Childermass and bumping his forehead on the other man’s chin, he wanted to say that he was sorry, and that he did so only to remember that he was not heard, which meant he had to take care of gently touching Childermass’s face, and fix his laughing eyes in the other man’s laughing eyes- and how strange this laugh, which was not heard, but bubbled in his chest close to Childermass’s chest, from a mouth to the other as a happy reverberation sparkling from man to man as they kissed again, and again.

It was peculiarly like being engulfed in very soft, very golden velvet; Childermass and he were together as if concealed under the same cut of fabric, but each man separate in a fold of his own. Their being unable to speak, to hear and to be heard, had the surprizing effect of muffling other things as well, so that all their touches, all their kisses had now acquired a hazy murmuring quality, a soft imprecision. Whereas Childermass, in his lovemaking as in his magic, was usually meticulous, almost sharp, always inevitably selecting for his attentions whatever portion of Segundus would cause him the most elation, he now seemed, deprived of the possibility of hearing his partner, softer and less focused, endearingly graceless as he lingered for too long on the interior of Segundus’s thigh just where it joined the pelvis, tickling him with his beard- not hearing Segundus chuckle and then chortle, only releasing him after Segundus had pinched him lightly on the side. How big had his eyes looked then! How surprized he had seemed at the unusual gesture! Segundus had shaken inwardly, numb with the overpowering currents of magic and desire; and then Childermass had taken his arm at the wrist, not forcefully but firmly, and while holding it still he had brought Segundus’s fingers to his own mouth. He had been, even in this, clumsier that usual; which was mind-boggling to Segundus, at least as mind-boggling as was, now, feeling Childermass’s teeth graze his knuckles, Childermass’s tongue dragging slowly down Segundus’s fingers so that they unfolded into his mouth.

Segundus heard himself moan slightly; immediately he checked himself for fear he might be heard, and then let out a sigh of relief when he acknowledged that he could _not_ be heard. There was, in this, a sort of shameful satisfaction; he moaned again as he felt his fingernails grazing against Childermass’s palate; as he felt Childermass’s breath wet against his skin, a hum that though unheard he felt through his fingertips. Childermass’s eyes, half-closed, were upon him; shaded by the heavy flutter of his lashes in a way that made Segundus groan, and then revel in this new-found, albeit imperfect, liberty. There was, he mused, as Childermass finally released his fingers but not his wrist; as he guided Segundus’s spit-wet hand gently but firmly down his body- there was something arousing in this arrangement of only being able to hear oneself, the same prurient unabashed joy that one feels during that most shameful diversion that is pleasuring oneself. And, like when pleasuring oneself (in one’s own world, so to speak) one becomes bolder in appeasing one’s desires, Segundus felt a similar liberty unfurl now in his heart; so that when Childermass stopt guiding his hand down his own body, and Segundus found that his hand was now between Childermass’s legs, and when Segundus saw Childermass somewhat defiantly hiking up his hips, planting a somewhat cold, somewhat rough foot on Segundus’s clavicle, Segundus felt, deep in his heart, that he knew what he wanted, and that he knew what Childermass, spread on the cushions like a rugged saint, wanted, and he complied without shame, slowly slipping one finger, up to one knuckle, into Childermass, an act that he had never previously risked (although Childermass had once performed it upon him, with great reciprocal enjoyment). The tight muscle closed around his finger as he inched it further down, obscenely enticing; so much in fact that he felt that he should risk another finger (Childermass having done the same to him, once, without overmuch difficulty), and so he did, and the act was so filthy, so wonderfully suggestive of other delights, heretofore untasted but which would come, eventually, if Childermass’s gaze was as promising as Segundus thought- that Segundus felt quite overwhelmed, and he rested his cheek against Childermass’s ankle, still propped on his clavicle, and hiked it up so that his fingers slipped further into Childermass, half by incident and half by design, which elicited from both of them a gasp (which he saw in the way Childermass’s eyes fluttered open, in the debauched way his mouth slacked wetly); so that, at the same time, he could bite at Childermass’s shin gently, run his tongue on it against the grain of the hairs, surprizingly fine and soft, of Childermass’s leg, with a sigh and a moan that urged him further.

Segundus felt, throughout the whole transaction, both elated and unprepared, seen as he now had no possibility of Childermass instructing him. In this, too, he felt that the night’s business was in many respects like magic, which required a great deal of fumbling, and blunders, and improvisation. So he gave Childermass’s knee a last nip, and very slowly he divaricated his fingers inside him, curled them so that Childermass gasped and closed his eyes, which in turn made Segundus gasp and close his eyes, but not for long, for in the silence he must see to glean from Childermass an appraisal- and only when he thought he saw it (in Childermass’s shaky smile, in his curt exhale that signified either a groan or a suppressed laugh) he gently slipped his fingers out of Childermass, and then slowly insinuated them in, then faster, which made Childermass _wriggle_ under him, which was so unnatural a gesture for the man that it stilled Segundus were he was, half in amazement and half in fear lest he had hurt him. Childermass looked at him. At last, almost pensively, he took Segundus’s wrist, gently eased his hand out of himself, which had Segundus think- feel even, cold settling in his stomach, that they were done for the night after all (for a man hardly thinks clearly when as painfully excited as Segundus, whose cock bumped slightly and delightfully on Childermass’s thigh whenever he pumped his fingers inside him).

“I am sorry,” he stammered, doubling up its efforts to look as contrived as he could in order for Childermass to see him- which was a poor impression indeed, because Segundus was not at all contrived, but very scared lest he had done something wrong. Childermass, however, did not attempt a reply, that is a verbal one. He guided Segundus’s hand under his own chin; he lifted his head up, and looking at him almost defiantly he spat on his palm- a gesture which made Segundus squirm, not because it was disgusting, although it should by all rights be disgusting, but because it felt at a time very intimate and utterly debauched, so much that in his elated state it made Segundus giggle with delight- it was so promising, the wetness of Childermass’s thick spit sliding off his fingers onto Childermass’s chest, it was- but then Segundus got distracted, because Childermass had lifted his hands above his head, hooked the fingers of one hand around the bedpost, one arm curving above his head almost languidly (that is, as languid as Childermass could manage, which after all still contained a measure of vigilance). It was in the end this sight which made Segundus falter, and groan (how sweet it sounded to his own ears!), and bring his spit-coated hand to his own cock to stroke it, a gesture in which he was lost for a while, his damp cold hand a relief around his cock, the slick wetness of it making his movements almost jerky.

When he opened his eyes, Childermass was looking at him, having taken himself in his hand; he was not however stroking himself, which gave Segundus an impression of great measure, at odds with the haste that he was feeling. He did not want that haste to go away; he did not want the unexpected boldness to give way to self-doubt, and, inevitably, self-loathing; he _wanted_. And so he guided Childermass’s other leg so that it was hooked on his shoulder, with an urgency that made Childermass chuckle, lift a hand to nest in Segundus’s hair, to pull at it just enough to heighten his senses, to convince him, finally, to breach him.

 

* * *

 

[1] This in his head included the business of letter-writing, and the business of being almost perpetually worried, and the business of kissing, and biting, which is in sum the business of conducting illicit activities with another man on a night of Autumn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the chapter ended up being longer than I expected! I decided to cut it in two to keep with the general length of the installments, but it's practically done and it shouldn't take me SIX BLOODY MONTHS to put up. Hopefully. Thank you for sticking with me! PHEEEW IT'S BEEN BUSY FEW MONTHS!


	11. Chapter 11

 

Even in the proverbial throes of passion, despite a certain light-headed enthusiasm that had overtaken him, John Segundus, being after all John Segundus, could not help a certain measure of _thinking_. Even in those first tentative steps of his making love to John Childermass, because he was himself, he was thinking; and what he thought was that he felt, now, somewhat differently from before- that is, that he felt, since the evening had begun- since the peculiar act in which he was now engaged had begun, a newer bolder _older_ man. This change stemmed, he mused, not from the act in-and-of-itself, or better- it _did stem_ from the act in-and-of-itself; in a certain measure: which is to say that, most confusingly, it _both_ stemmed from the act and _not_ from the act, the change meaning that in the space of a night Segundus had been made unfettered by shame and unafraid of Childermass; sweetly unhinged by the thrumming demands of his body (or; of his soul). But let us explain.

At first, Segundus had thought not the act itself to be elating, but rather the vicinity of Childermass, the light-fluttering thing that it made to bloom in his chest, and the seriousness of Childermass’s dark eyes. He had almost convinced himself of this, except that he had then thought that it _was_ after all the act itself, the astonishing fact that it did not feel sordid at all, even when it was the most debased activity to which two men could lend themselves; that it was not shameful in the least even if it felt, in a way, very dirty (wet and somewhat sticky and _the sounds!_ of skin on skin of sucking clenching smacking- all the more obscene because the nature of the spell made it so that Segundus could only hear only his part, so to speak, of the sounds).

In truth, John Segundus had never felt less ashamed in all his life. Never had he felt closer to another person, or found the same unabashed joy in being sweaty and smelling, groaning and moaning and laughing. And it was all delightful, truly, except that it felt perhaps a little lonely; except that even in this most intimate embrace, Segundus, for the first time in the night, found himself truly regretting the spell that he and Childermass had cast upon each other. He wanted to hear Childermass; and yet that was not to be done, for it was too dangerous lest they were heard- for, more selfishly, he was afraid that hearing Childermass, and, all the more so, knowing that he was heard by him, would send him over the threshold of pleasure into his closure- and he wanted it to last, he thought with finality, as he exercised a certain amount of measure in pushing into Childermass, a caution that felt somewhat, counterintuitively, enticing- how he could feel every sensation slowed down and magnified by the strange elating action of pushing his cock into Childermass, now slowly, now with a certain deliberation.

Segundus looked at Childermass as he pushed into him; at that Childermass, most astonishingly and peculiarly, raised his hand to gently place its palm upon Segundus’s eyes. Childermass’s hand was slightly parched, and it smelled faintly of tobacco, and Segundus, entirely floored and immensely in love, felt, in that moment, that he was hanging on a very thin thread: that he must act or he would spend himself, or he would be utterly incapable of going on, or worse, that he would rip the spell from both of them, rip his own soul if he must and tell Childermass that he-

But he did not; he acted. He chortled rapidly and nervously, and he took Childermass’s wrist to guide his hand to the bedpost, not letting go of it so that Childermass could now be very helpless under Segundus, very much in his power; and it felt very natural, much easier, this reversal of roles- Childermass being the most controlled of the two and the least prone to romance- the least likely to fall prey to overmuch sentiment or be overwhelmed by a loving hand gently but firmly pinning him in place. And in turn Segundus found himself helplessly aroused by this compliance of Childermass that he reserved to Segundus, how docile he was (just for him _just for him)_ , and had he ever been so compliant, Segundus wondered, remembering in that moment that Childermass was once someone’s servant, that he had once been in love- _was_ \- but it was Segundus, now, pushing into Childermass somehow forcefully, and Childermass welcoming this force, this claim upon him, or so it seemed, so it seemed and it was easy for Segundus to believe with Childermass’s warmth all over himself, with his damp-earth magic throbbing in his heart and in his ears- with Childermass’s breath so warm against his skin. And yet there was a fear to Segundus. He could not help but feel a discomfort that was most paradoxical in the midst of all pleasure- and yet how _complicated_ everything was, even in the backdrop of the uncomplicated act of easing his cock out of Childermass almost completely, of teasing his aperture with just the smallest thrust of its tip, which made Childermass’s chest heave, which made his breath warm and ragged on Segundus’s hand where it was still locked on his arm- and of course this made things complicated again, this abandon of Childermass, which surprized Segundus inevitably, which made him want to say _beautiful_ , which in fact he did say, breathless against Childermass’s lips (and would he have had the same courage were he heard? But oh, to be heard..!)

And heard he must be, in some way; as soon as he felt not-yet-melancholy, but on the brink of it, he felt- an absence, like a sudden gust of wind on wet skin; Childermass’s magic had left him.

He stared at Childermass in puzzlement, and after a fashion Childermass gently freed his arm from Segundus’s to place a hand on his neck. Sighing, Segundus pulled out of Childermass and looked at him, and yet he did not lift the spell on his side. He suddenly felt very naked, very aware of the fact that Childermass could hear him and yet he could not hear Childermass; he felt exposed, thrilled, almost-ashamed. This was, however, not entirely a bad sensation, and he basked in it a small while before lifting the spell off Childermass, with the elating certainty that he now had that Childermass could hear him uttering the words that would end it.[1]

“John,” said Childermass then; and he must have been still under the impression that the spell worked, because he said it out loud, and he appeared almost chastised upon realizing how he was heard by Segundus, who for his part shuddered at the sound of his name. Childermass looked about himself, certainly in fear should someone enter the room to discover them. Then he repeated, in a murmur: “John.”

Segundus remained very still for a time, half-astounded by the new vivid world that hearing Childermass created all around him. How much more tangible everything felt! How much more real, now that he could hear Childermass breathing, shuffling on the counterpane, saying his name, above anything saying his name. His joints creaked a little bit as he unhooked his legs from Segundus’s shoulders, and Segundus felt hopeless, his heart straining in an almost-maudlin ache (ridiculous after all; old as they were) as Childermass pressed him on the bed so that they were face-to-face and on their sides.

“I was lonely,” said Segundus, finally, to Childermass’s questioning gaze. Childermass’s hand was in his hair, which rustled lightly; he was running a foot up and down on Segundus’s shin, and even that seemed to make somewhat a sound, and even that seemed, in a way, more intimate and frail now that Segundus could _hear_ Childermass hum softly with his mouth on Segundus’s shoulder, the vibration on his skin making his head buzz in turn.

“Perhaps you wish to stop this,” ventured Childermass, even as he licked at the tender skin of his neck.

“Why would I wish to stop it?”

“You stopped.”

“Only for a moment!”

“If you wish-”

“What?”

“To stop-”

“I wish that you would stop coddling me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Always asking me whether I wish to stop our- our _intercourses_ , even when I clearly do not wish it,” said Segundus. He made a point of pressing his erection onto Childermass’s stomach, with which it was on a level.

“I merely wish to make you comfortable.”

“Well then don’t- I mean it, John Childermass. I have never been comfortable in all my life, and I least of all wish to be so now.”

“What do you wish for, then,” asked Childermass, locking his arms around his waist, not without a certain patience.

“I wish for- I wish for us to resume our-”

“Fucking.”

“ _Oh_!” Segundus exclaimed; too loudly, perhaps, and the shame of it made him bite his lip. Upon seeing this, Childermass immediately surged upwards, and kissed him very forcefully with hands cradling his head.

“I will cast Pale then, for both of us. Or perhaps you prefer doing it?” Said Childermass after a while; his hand was still in Segundus’s hair and he was a little bit breathless after kissing Segundus most thoroughly, and Segundus’s head felt very light and his legs very heavy (Segundus’s fingers had curled around Childermass’s cock as if on their own accord).

Segundus pondered.

“I do not- I would. Actually. If it is alright with you, I would perchance prefer it if we cast no magic at all.”

“I would have thought you liked the magic.”

“I did. I do. It was. It is complicated.” To this Childermass frowned, compelling Segundus to trace his brow with a thumb. “I did not like not hearing you. Or you not hearing me. But I liked having, I think, your magic around me; knowing it was of your doing that is. And thus, it is complicated. Pray do not laugh at me, Childermass.”

“I am not laughing _at you_ , I am very happy.”

This had the effect of making Segundus blush. Childermass, for his part, looked rather chastised, rather as if he regretted very much his declaration- his being _very_ happy. His mouth was still set in a smile, and yet he appeared almost struggling against it- a frown threatening to slip in the place of the laughter- and so Segundus slid down on the bed a little bit so that he was of a level with Childermass, and kissed him on the cheek.

“And anyway, it is John,” said Childermass, suddenly, after a while.

“Mh?”

“You called me Childermass. I wish you would call me John, not Childermass.”

“Is it really that important?”

To this Childermass did not reply: he pressed his lips to Segundus’s. He regarded him for a small while after this, looking almost undecided; then he kissed him again, briefly and forcefully, and finally gazed at him ponderingly.

“I suppose,” he said, after a spell, “that magic is a very complicated matter.” And again he had a certain way of looking at Segundus, from under the unruly locks of his hair, that made Segundus think he meant something altogether different from what he had said, which Segundus, however he applied itself to it, could still not understand completely. Undecided what to reply, he merely nodded. He felt that the moment was very solemn, although he could not quite grasp why.

“If we are to go on without magic, we shall have to be very silent,” murmured Childermass. It was astounding, how each of his words had on Segundus the effect of a small galvanic bolt- how each word was made very real and very tangible by the fact that his uttering caused Childermass’s lips to brush Segundus’s, that it was heard by Segundus.

“Can you be silent, John?” Asked Childermass.

To this Segundus did not reply; he merely placed his hands on Childermass’s hips (his abandoning his cock causing a muffled grunt from the other man). He turned him gently on his side so that he had his back to Segundus, to which Childermass complied with the utmost docility, to which Segundus’s heart clenched in his chest. He brushed Childermass’s sweat-damp hair from his neck, ran his tongue on the nape of Childermass’s neck; Childermass shuddered, pressed his hips against Segundus.

It was not difficult, then, for Segundus to spit on his hand (accomplice to this ease the fact that Childermass could not see him in this unseemly act- for it did still appear unseemly to Segundus, who was after all still a virgin- or was he? Still inexperienced anyway, still unaccustomed to being seen while accomplishing the never dignified feat of coating his cock in spit); and he gently opened Childermass with his fingers again, again sliding into him with a sigh and a muffled groan- which felt different this time, however, because Childermass could hear him, and Segundus could _hear_ that Childermass could hear him, and most importantly Segundus could hear _Childermass_ , moaning an imperceptible moan almost as if attempting the utmost restraint, which Segundus suspected had only partly to do with the fact that they could not be heard, was mostly caused by Childermass’s natural reluctance at showing his feelings, showing his cards so to speak- and yet how he managed to make himself plain regardless and because of this reluctance! How infuriating this was, and yet how delightful; how Childermass was all in all a man of contradiction. Segundus slid out of him almost completely, then into him, chasing the pleasure of being completely enveloped in Childermass- holding him made him feel stronger, bigger even, made him capable of taking into account their not-so-big difference in build, of taking into account the fragility of Childermass’s shoulders, around which he had thrown one arm. Soon it became impossible for Segundus to exercise a modicum of control in his thrusts, deranged, devoured, debased as he was by the act. He wanted, oh, he wanted to draw out the pleasure as much as he could; and not only the pleasure, but all the things that came with it, first among them the feeling of not being alone, of being _with Childermass_ , who was delightfully, astonishingly reduced to a gasping scrappy small thing twitching in his arms, rutting desperately against Segundus’s hand, for which Segundus felt an infinite tenderness, a commitment to protect- which was preposterous of course, Childermass being one of the strongest men he knew, and yet. And Segundus had been ready to push this tenderness out of himself, almost ashamed by it, except that Childermass, with a sound almost like a sob, had thrown one arm behind him blindly so that he could clutch at Segundus’s neck almost with need, almost with desperation, and Segundus, although it was most uncomfortable, could do nothing but kiss him on the mouth, which was not a kiss after all but a haphazard breathing into each other, a licking, biting disorderly thing that echoed his disorderly wants as he pushed desperately into Childermass, as he gripped Childermass’s arm and finally (too soon too soon too violently) came into him, his entire body shaking, shattered by the force of it, by the contentment and the not-quite-contentment, by a desire that he still felt, strangely, throbbing in him like a strange melancholia. He breathed into Childermass’s hair. He held him faster, lest the melancholia should have the best of him, through the last jerky waves of his orgasm. Once he had pulled out, Childermass turned into his arms to face him, kissed him on the mouth, looked at him with a thrilling resolute calm in his dark eyes. Silently (but not _silently_ , for his breath was fast, for swallowed once as if his throat were closed off, with difficulty- for the bed creaked and heaved under his weight), Childermass took Segundus’s wrists in one hand, and tipped him with his back on the bed so that he was on top of him, straddling him and stilling him, a sudden change from the previous docility which Segundus welcomed, invited, canting his hips upwards. Childermass stroked himself, fast, filthily, almost sloppily, and, with a strangled chocking sound, came on Segundus’s abdomen breathing ragged and fast, with his queer black eyes still fixed into his eyes.

 

Afterwards, it was Childermass who got up first. Segundus watched Childermass as he cleaned himself at the small toilette, battling against himself lest he should fall asleep- and then falling asleep. When he woke up Childermass was dabbing at him with a clean serviette that he discarded next to the bed when he was finished.

“You have deflowered me, John,” mumbled Segundus, fumbling in front of him to reach for Childermass, to press his warm body onto him. Childermass guffawed against his chest, reaching to cover them both with the counterpane.

“You were not much of a virgin anyway.”

“Let me be the judge of it.”

“As you wish.”

Segundus dozed off again, the restless sleep of one who did not truly wish to fall asleep. When he woke up some five minutes later, it was to Childermass watching him.

“I hope it was agreeable,” muttered Segundus, still half-dozing, uncertain what to say. To this Childermass did not reply. He brought his hand to Segundus’s cheek, kissed him on the forehead.

“I do not deserve you,” said Childermass, or maybe not, maybe Segundus dreamt it, for he was only half-awake in the warmth of the room, in a haze that was both post-coital and post-magic, with Childermass’s head on his chest.

 

The next morning, Segundus woke up with the kind of dozy headache he always had after doing strong magic. It took him a small while to acknowledge his surroundings; to acknowledge that he was in his room, and that said room practically sizzled with magic, and that the fire had been rekindled in the fireplace so that the air was enveloped in a wood-smelling glow.

He looked outside of the windows, and he saw that it was raining; he saw that however gloomy the day was, the light outside was sufficiently bright for it to be well past his time to awake. He groaned; he sat up; he remembered. That was when he saw Childermass, sitting next to the fire with his back to him, reading.

“I slept too much,” he said, without so much as a _good morning_. This he regretted, along with the panicked note in his tone. Childermass turned to him with a grin; his hair was all mussed still, his fingers already ink-stained from taking notes. He had worn again his nightshirt, so that he looked very soft in the soft light of the morning.

“Charles came this morning with your breakfast. He has been informed that you are very ill, and will not leave your apartments for the day.”

“But I have _classes_!”

“Your students are very grateful for this day of leisure, and wish you a swift recovery.”

“How did you- How did he _not see._ ”

“Remember that I am a magician, John Segundus,” shrugged Childermass; he had on his face the most beautiful, most wicked grin, baring just a hint of teeth, which in the orange hues of the room made him look like a fay queer creature. Segundus felt a shiver in his bones; he felt, absurdly, as if he were about to be stolen away. But this was just the impression of a moment: Childermass looked very human again as he got up with a grimace (he being not all that young anymore) to reach the bed.

“I feel your magic.”

“It’s just Pale’s. I could not take risks, with the house all awake.”

“It makes me groggy.”

At this Childermass merely gazed heavenwards, and sat on the bed next to Segundus.

“You are very patronizing, John Childermass,” said Segundus, even as he reached towards his hand. He was, truth be told, perturbed by the ease with which Childermass had taken decisions without consulting him, and on a day of work!- but Childermass’s hand was twig-twisted in his hand, and he wanted it on him, and he wanted to kiss him, which he did.

 

Afterwards, Segundus was eating his breakfast in bed. Childermass, who had refused in turn a morsel of bread, and a sip of tea, and a bite of a scone, was reading over the notes that they had taken, earlier in the morning, over the mishap with Pale’s spell. His head was on Segundus’s thigh, a hand idly brushing Segundus’s shin. It was, Segundus thought, the exact picture of domestic bliss- except that this was of course a very secret, very dangerous version of domestic bliss- one which could be punished by hanging. Segundus felt a fear shake him inwardly; he placed a protective hand on Childermass’s black head, and felt Childermass’s smile on his leg.

“You have a letter.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A letter,” huffed Childermass, and much like a conjuror he produced one envelop from his sleeve, and he proffered it to Segundus with a swift movement, holding it between his middle and forefinger.

“It’s been _opened_!” Yelped Segundus upon inspecting it. To which: “Aye,” was Childermass’s laconic reply.

“ _You_ opened it!”

“Aye.”

“It’s _my_ correspondence!”

“I did not read it,” said Childermass, placatingly raising a hand, placatingly raising his head from Segundus to sit next to him. “It’s in Italian.”

“Truly, John, the gall-”

“How do you mean?”

“You confess that you only did not read it because it’s in Italian!”

“No, John,” said Childermass, slowly. He had about him an unguarded sort of glee for a moment, and then he turned guarded again, composed his features in a mask of efficiency, said briskly: “It’s in _Italian_.”

“…Oh!” Exclaimed Segundus, finally understanding. He ran a hand through his hair, in impatience, and a-flutter he opened the letter, sending breadcrumbs to fly through the air. Childermass cautiously eased the breakfast tray from Segundus’s lap, to place it on the floor.  “Well?” He asked.

“Just a second if you please, I am not that proficient-”

“It is your relatives who send it.”

“Yes. Yes, they-”

“They?”

Segundus huffed. “John, _I say_.” He read the letter again, slowly, squinting at the tidy Italian cursive on the inexpensive paper. His gaze lingered for a moment on the prancing Leopard on its sigil, a conspicuous reminder, if anything, of the ancient nobility of his family, of its former glory. And the Leopard seemed to Segundus, for that moment, an omen; it looked to him as if it were ready to spring on them, almost-menacing with their future like a gaping hole, stretching, waiting, open-mouthed— “They say that they have interjected for us with the Conte Leopardi. They say that he will have you, and they give us his address to arrange a date for your visit.” He found that his hands were trembling.

“ _My_ visit?” Asked Childermass. He reached for the letter in Segundus’s hand and placed it on the bedside table.

“…And the Lord Opie’s visit, if he wishes to come.”

“You would not come along?”

“I have my school.”

“But do you _want_ to come. You do want to come, John. You are curious.”

“It is- it is not a matter of wanting, I think. I have- obligations, and- my school, my students, they are-”

“John.”

“I have a fear about this.”

“Do you fear the Conte Leopardi?”

“Do not be silly. I fear- the book, the stone, I fear-”

“It is our duty to English Magic to decipher the book. It is my duty. John, I am the reader of the book. If you do not wish to accompany me-“

“I have a feeling that reading the book will end us. Me.” said Segundus, his voice a quick scared sort of whisper. He felt that he should speak his heart now, lest he grew too scared for it. “I have a feeling- it is not that I do not wish for Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell to come back, but- if we bring them back, what of our work with English magic- what if Mr Norrell elects again to hoard it to himself- if he- He has already- then what of us.” He paused, finding that swallowing was very hard; his mouth was parched. “What of _our work_ , I mean- I meant, what of our work.”

Childermass stared at him for a long time. He seemed to be pondering, and when he finally spoke, he did so very slowly. “I am afraid we cannot say yet. We’ll need to take this step by step.”

“Can we consult your cards, please?”

“They are not helping; I cannot yet read them about this. They tell me nothing.”

“You have tried already-”

“This is no small matter to me, John Segundus. Do not think I am unconcerned about- our work,” said Childermass. “But the future is yet to be made.” He held out a hand to Segundus’s shoulder, then seemed to think better of it; he looked at Segundus studiously, as if concerned that he should grasp the meaning of his words. Segundus, who wanted to ask more, who ached for a reassurance, gathered all his courage and nodded, once, briskly.

“I will come to Italy if you wish it.”

“I wish it very much.”

“Do not be cruel to me, John Childermass.”

“I would never wish you harm.”

“What about the harm you inflict without wishing so?”

“You are turning melancholy, Mr Segundus.”

“Must be the weather.”

“Must be.”

“And it is John.”

“John.” Childermass sighed. He shuffled under the covers so he lied in bed again, and entreated Segundus to do so as well. When Segundus had complied, Childermass nuzzled his neck, and was silent for a while before speaking, with the pensive quality of before, against his skin. “I believe there is not much that I do, that I do not wish to.”

Segundus laughed, a small chuckle of a laugh- yet it was _something_. “Always so assured;” to which Childermass replied by humming on his collarbone, kissing brief small kisses along the line of his jaw.

“I’ll tell you this, John Segundus,” he said between kisses, as he took Segundus’s hand to place it on his own neck (the palm of it he kissed too, somewhat slowly). “I’ll tell you this. I believe that if Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell come- _when_ they come again to this world, that is, it will be to a new England.”

“They will need to adjust-”

“They will need to understand, I believe, that English magic is not a thing of their own anymore- that it does not obey them.”

“Well, it does not obey us either.”

“I think it does obey you. Occasionally.”

“Are we talking metaphors?”

“Magicians are enigmatic.”

“Though some more so than others!”

“Shut up and let me kiss you.”

 

Inside the room two men lied in bed, enveloped in magic, tightly embraced. They were not young and they were not beautiful- except for when they looked at each other; then they were steadfast, serious, love-struck.

Outside the window the rain had stopped: a clean autumnal sun was slowly making its way above the orchard and into the room, seeming, with its light to polish everything into a golden hue- the trees outside and the hyacinths on the windowsill, the spines of books on magic and the pages of the novels- and it seemed, with its glow, to make the world anew, to make it beautiful and strong against the hardship of the incoming winter.

 

 

[1] The words were: “By the power of the cross I finish this incantation; _amen, amen, amen_ ”. Pale, like many argentine magicians, was not the most imaginative spell-maker.


End file.
